


Seventh Time’s the Charm

by halfdesertedstreets



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: (seriously you will spend 3/4 of the fic going 'PLEASE BANG'), (so much miscommunication), (to borrow AugustaByron's tag), 5 Times, Endgame PB&J or Bust, Fluff and Humor, Friends to Lovers, Gratuitous Smut, Larissa "Lardo" Duan is a Good Bro, Light Angst, Long-Suffering Bitty & Jack, M/M, Medium Burn, Mentions of Lardo/Ransom/Holster, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Oblivious Kent Parson, Polyamory Negotiations, Rom-Com Shenanigans, Sex Dreams, Threesome - M/M/M, When the Love of Your Life Is Denser than a Rock, well it's 6 + 1 Times to make the title cuter but i digress
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-18
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2020-05-14 02:32:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19264165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halfdesertedstreets/pseuds/halfdesertedstreets
Summary: It’s embarrassing to say, but it takes until the fifth time Bitty has a sex dream about Kent to admit that maybe he has a problem.--Or,fivesix times Bitty and Jack try to ask Kent Parson out, and one time they don’t have to.





	Seventh Time’s the Charm

**Author's Note:**

  * For [korechthonia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/korechthonia/gifts).



> Written for the inaugural [OMGCP Reversebang 2019](https://omgcpreversebang.tumblr.com/). All the kudos to the fantastic, talented [KoreChthonia](http://korechthonia.tumblr.com) for making the [magnificent piece](https://korechthonia.tumblr.com/post/185656788704/seventh-times-the-charm-find-the-fic-on-ao3) that inspired this story. <3
> 
> Thank you to all the other participants in the Reversebang, especially the artists, and _especially_ the mods. Artists, you all made such inspiring pieces, I am _still_ in awe. Mods, you guys did a great job running this whole shebang, and this awesome event wouldn't have been possible without you. Shout-out also to the Parse Posse & Sora's Heart Hotel for being my sounding boards and sprinting buddies and much-needed supporters, and thanks to G for her awesome beta skills. Finally, thank you, dear reader, for taking a chance on this story of mine. I hope you enjoy. :)
> 
> Disclaimer: Characters are not mine; all credit goes to [ngoziu](http://ngoziu.tumblr.com).

* * *

 

**_Seventh Time’s the Charm_**

 

* * *

 

It starts out innocently enough. 

Bitty’s in his kitchen, mixing ingredients together for cookie dough, and Kent is sitting at the counter, watching him intently. His chin is resting against the heel of his hand, his hair is sleep-mussed and standing up every which way, and he’s got a small, secretive smile on his face. Late morning sunshine is streaming in from the windows, lighting up his eyes so they’re glinting green with flecks of brown, catching every so often on his long golden lashes. 

Oh, and he’s shirtless.

Which is—something Bitty doesn’t think to question. Just accepts it as mundane and not anything out of the ordinary. Why should he? Kent Parson is half-naked in his kitchen, and Bitty was raised never to look a gift-horse in the mouth, so he just stands there and enjoys the view. 

It looks like he’s not the only one enjoying the view, if the gleam in Kent’s eyes is any indication. 

“Looks good,” Kent says—murmurs, really, low-voiced and a little raspy, like he just rolled out of bed. He certainly  _looks_ like he just rolled out of bed, but, then again, that’s not really unusual. Kent’s not like Jack, early riser that he is. He likes sleeping in when he can, dozing lazily in the sheets like a cat, which Bitty knows because— 

Because. 

Bitty doesn’t question this bit of knowledge either, just rolls with it, too. “Do you want a taste?” he asks Kent, because why wouldn’t he? Kent is there, with a working mouth and a working tongue, and even if his palate isn’t as refined as some, he’s still a perfectly good taste tester. 

Kent’s smile widens and he nods eagerly. Bitty steps close, and Kent closes his eyes and opens his mouth. 

Naturally, Bitty swipes a finger through the batter and sticks it in, watching Kent’s lips close around it and gently suck, moaning as the sugary sweet substance hits his tongue. Bitty pushes his finger in a little further, letting Kent lick it all the way clean before pulling it out. 

“So?” he asks. 

“’S good,” Kent answers, his eyes still closed. “More please?” he asks. He opens his mouth again expectantly, and, well, Bitty can hardly refuse such a polite request, can he? 

Bitty dips two of his fingers in this time to give Kent a more generous portion, and some of it dripped a little further down, so of  _course_ he has to let Kent suck his fingers down to the third knuckle, his warm, wet tongue gently laving the webbing between Bitty’s fingers as Kent makes the most _delicious_ noises of satisfaction. 

“Good, baby?” Bitty asks him, sliding his other hand to cup the back of Kent’s head, fingers toying with the messy curls at the nape of his neck, and he savors Kent’s shiver in response, pulling him closer. 

Kent goes easily, wrapping his arms around Bitty’s waist so that his warm, bare skin is pressed against Bitty’s chest. “Mmmhmm,” he answers, opening his eyes to narrow slits, revealing eyes gone dark with arousal. 

“Do you want more, sweetheart?” Bitty prompts. 

Kent shakes his head. “I want something else,” he admits, smiling impishly. 

“Oh, well, why didn’t you say so, baby?” Bitty says. He steps back out of Kent’s embrace, and, for some reason, it’s completely natural for Kent to sink to his knees right there on the kitchen tiles, grinning up at Bitty before letting his mouth drop open invitingly. 

Bitty reaches for the button on his jeans— 

—only to be rudely awoken by the loud, obnoxious blaring of his alarm. 

Bitty snaps his eyes open, staring wide-eyed at his and Jack’s bedroom ceiling. 

“What in the living hell?” he whispers, laying there with a rather insistent hard-on and the dream-memory of Kent’s eager, playful grin imprinted on the backs of his eyelids. “What just  _happened?”_  

The ceiling, unfortunately, holds no answers for him. 

 

___

 

Bitty decides to ignore the dream entirely, writing it off as a strange, one-time occurrence. Besides, it’s just a sex dream—people can’t control those! That’s the entire point. And Kent is very attractive, and he and Jack have gotten a lot closer lately, which means he and Bitty have gotten closer, too, especially since he even stayed over at their apartment a few times, hanging out with Jack during their off-season. He was a very polite guest, careful to be on his best behavior, and Bitty can admit that he was charmed. They exchanged numbers and social media handles, and Bitty is proud to say that they’ve struck up a friendship of their own in the year or so since Jack and Kent reconciled. 

Bitty likes him a lot—well, not  _likes_ him, likes him, just—likes him. As a person. Bitty thinks he’s very friendly and charming and funny when you get right down to it, if not a little over-the-top ridiculous, but honestly that only serves to make him more endearing. 

Actually, now that Bitty thinks about it, the combination of Kent’s winsome personality and his movie star-good looks means that—that it was _inevitable_ that Bitty had a sex dream about him. Obviously it’s not going to happen again—Bitty rarely has sex dreams about anybody but Jack—but Bitty can’t be held responsible for it happening just the once. Why, it’s only natural, Bitty reasons. 

Bitty nods to himself and gets on with his morning, putting the dream out of his mind entirely. 

 

___ 

 

Bitty’s convinced that avoidance would’ve been a sure-fire winning strategy for dealing with the dream. 

…except that. You know. It  _keeps_ happening. 

That sort of makes it hard to deny that his subconscious is trying to tell him something, especially since the dreams inconveniently go from being, ahem, _previews_ of the show, so to speak, and instead move on to depict the main feature in rather, um, _graphic_ detail, much to Bitty’s conscious mortification and unfortunately subconscious carnal satisfaction.

And then—and then _Jack_ starts starring in them, too.

Or—well,  _co-starring,_  if Bitty really has to get technical, and Bitty never would’ve thought of himself as the type to get off on voyeurism, and normally he really, really isn’t—

But apparently the exception to this rule is watching Kent ‘I Just Woke Up Like This’ Parson giving Bitty’s boyfriend a very enthusiastic lap dance in nothing but black boxers, a bow tie, and that obnoxious Aces’ snapback perched jauntily backwards on his stupidly touchable curls, looking like nothing so much as a filthy Vegas fantasy come to life. 

“C’mon, Bits,” Kent says cajolingly, grinding his hips down against one of Jack’s thighs, one of his hands on Jack’s shoulders for balance, the other busy at work between them—Bitty can’t quite see what he’s doing, but the noises coming out of Jack’s mouth are a pretty good indication. “Don’t you wanna join in?” 

And a big part of Bitty does—he really, _really_ does—but he still shakes his head no. “I like the view from right here, sugar,” he says—and there it is, right on schedule: Kent’s signature pout, only slightly less distinctive than his trademark smirk.

“Bits,” Kent whines, sounding exactly like he does when Bitty refuses to let him have another slice of Jack’s apple pie when he’s already got a whole cherry crumble to take home. “C’mon, please, don’t you wanna touch us?” He gives his hips another pointed wriggle, causing Jack to groan helplessly and clutch his hips tighter. 

“Kenny,” Jack pleads, and Bitty didn’t know he’d be so turned on by his boyfriend sounding so desperate for another man, especially when that man is  _Kent Parson,_ but he is. He really,  _really_ is.

Bitty gives a mental shrug—you learn new things about yourself every day, after all, and he has two gorgeous men begging for his attention right in front of him, so forgive him for being a little unconcerned with internal retrospection right now. 

“Fuck, Zimms, are you coming already?” Kent groans, shuddering as Jack latches onto his neck and bites down. “Oh, fuck—don’t do that, not  _yet_ —Jesus, I want—Bits, please,  _come on.”_  

And Bitty finally relents and presses himself behind Kent, keeping him trapped between them, and slides a hand down into his underwear, relishing Kent’s shocked gasp of pleasure, how heavy and hot he is, the tip of him already slick and getting slicker as Bitty works him over. Bitty tips his head forward to steal a kiss from Jack, made a little difficult from how widely his boyfriend is grinning, not that Bitty can talk. Jack’s hand joins his, and they make out lazily as they take Kent apart between them, their gorgeous boy moaning and writhing as he comes all over himself. 

And then—and then all of a sudden, they’re all in bed together, the three of them, Bitty sitting up comfortably against the headboard while Kent’s got his head resting on his thighs, Jack snuggled up behind him like a particularly clingy octopus. Jack’s fast asleep, of course, sacked out the way he always gets after sex, but Kent’s wide awake and smiling softly up at him as Bitty combs his fingers through his hair and murmurs sweet nothings to him. 

“I love you,” Kent says in reply, his expression straightforward and earnest, so of course Bitty’s heart skips a beat before he says it back to him, easy as breathing. 

He’s leaning down for another kiss when he wakes up. 

“Oh, Lord help me,” he breathes, squeezing his eyes shut in utter mortification. “That can’t have just happened.” 

He lays there in bed and wills his overly vivid imagination to stop replaying choice scenes in his head, determined to ignore his arousal and pretend that the dream never occurred. 

It doesn’t work, unfortunately. 

 

___ 

 

The problem is, obviously the dream  _did_ happen. And it’s  _been_ happening, six times now in the span of a single month, and Bitty might be an expert at denying inconvenient truths, but even he can’t deny that this is something of a problem. It’s one thing to have a one-off sex dream about an attractive friend, and another thing entirely to conjure said friend confessing his love to him while his boyfriend sleeps soundly next to him. 

So, he does what he does when all his questionable life decisions start stabbing him in the back: 

He calls up Lardo. 

 

___ 

 

“I don’t see what the problem is, bro,” Lardo tells him unhelpfully. 

Bitty glares at her from across the flimsy two-person table, a staple at all the independent coffee shop dives that Lardo favors, including the one they’re currently in. “How can you not see what the problem is? I’m having constant sex dreams about—” Bitty cuts himself off, looking furtively around him before lowering his voice, “—you know. _Him.”_

Lardo raises a brow in clear amusement, and Bitty wants to huff out an offended noise, except for the fact that he’s honestly a bit relieved that she doesn’t seem to think it’s as big a deal as he does. Contrary to popular belief, Bitty _is_ aware of his tendency to make mountains out of molehills, and he trusts Lardo to put things into perspective for him. 

“And so what if you are?” Lardo says bluntly. “It’s not like you’re cheating. Dreams are just dreams. You think I don’t dream of having threesomes with Stephanie Beatriz and Lupita Nyong’o?”

Bitty waves a hand. “That’s different! Those’re celebrity crushes, that’s completely normal.”

“And, what, dreaming about Kent Parson isn’t? I’m sure you get enough reminders from the man himself, but he kind of _is_ a celebrity, bro.” 

Bitty wrinkles his nose. “Well, _yes,_ but he’s not a celebrity to _me._ He’s—he’s one of Jack’s best friends, we follow each other on Instagram and Twitter, he sends me selfies with his cats all the damn time—” 

Lardo makes an interested noise.

“—and, I don’t know, isn’t it impolite to constantly fantasize about one of your friends?” he says, tapping his fingers against the table. At this point, Bitty would normally stir his coffee out of sheer petulance, but the latte art was so beautiful that he’s kind of waiting for it to dissipate naturally instead, so he has to make do. 

“…not really?” 

Bitty’s mouth twists. “So you think Ransom and Holster would be completely fine with you having sex dreams about Shitty?” he says, and then immediately wants to take it back. 

Lardo narrows her eyes at him, and Bitty resists the urge to hunch his shoulders. “One, that wouldn’t be any of their business, and, two, even if it were, they’d trust that I wouldn’t act on it without talking to them first.” She sits back and crosses her arms pointedly. “Why? Are you planning on acting on _your_ dreams?”

“No!” Bitty says. “Of course not!”

Lardo shrugs. “Then it isn’t a problem.” She leans a hand against her cheek, sighing. “Bitty, seriously, you’re not obligated to tell Jack every single detail of your subconscious sex life. It’s—I don’t know. It’s your business, you know? Since you’re obviously not planning on doing anything about it, who cares? They’re just imaginary fun times—it’s not like you actually have _feelings_ for Parse.”

“Hrm.” Bitty picks up his spoon and starts stirring. 

Lardo frowns at him, suspicious. “Bitty…?” she says. 

Bitty continues to avoid her gaze. 

“Bitty,” she repeats, more insistently. 

“I don’t know, okay!” Bitty hisses. He sits back, covering his eyes and groaning. “Ugh, Lardo, I don’t even know what I’m doing anymore. I’ve been doing my best to be normal with Kent, but it keeps getting harder and harder! It was bad enough when it was just, you know, blow jobs and stuff—but, then! Then we started cuddling, and exchanging ‘I love you’s’ and—and then _Jack_ started joining in—” He cuts himself off and lays his cheek down against the table, resisting the urge to bang his head on it. He gives himself a few seconds to pull it together, then looks back up.

Lardo’s eyebrows are somewhere near her hairline now. “Well. That sounds a bit more serious than you were letting on.”

Bitty grimaces. “You think?”

“Look, you opened the conversation by saying, ‘So I’ve been dreaming about getting it on with Kent Parson,’ forgive me if I thought you were just having another Southern white boy hang-up about your sex life,” Lardo says, blunt as ever, and, well, that’s fair. Bitty says as much, then feels better when Lardo starts patting his hair comfortingly.

“You probably should’ve called Ransom for this,” she says after a moment, thoughtful.

Bitty lifts his head. “Ransom? Why?” he asks, genuinely puzzled.

Lardo grins. “Well, he’s the one who wanted to bring Holster in first, you know? It started off kind of like your situation, except that he didn’t really tell me about it. He just started saying _both_ of our names while he was sleeping, if you catch my drift.”

Bitty wills himself not to blush. He is twenty-four years old, he is perfectly capable of having a mature conversation with his friend about their mutual sex lives. “Oh, I see,” he says faintly.

Lardo shows off a grin; it has a lot of teeth in it. “Yeah. Worked out pretty well for him, I gotta say, mostly ’cause I’m the best girlfriend ever.”

Bitty nods, because why argue with the truth?

Then a sudden and terrible thought strikes him:

“Oh, God,” he says, horrified. “What if _I’ve_ been saying stuff out loud in my sleep?”

Lardo can’t quite hide her wince. “Oof. That’d be rough, buddy.”

Now it’s his turn to narrow his eyes at her. “Are you quoting _Avatar: The Last Airbender_ at me right now?” Bitty demands.

“…maybe?” Lardo says, smiling sheepishly.

“…well, you’re lucky that I love that show,” Bitty grumbles.

Lardo looks at him. “Bro, if you didn’t love ATLA, we wouldn’t be friends, and that’s a fact,” she says, completely serious.

“True enough,” Bitty says, then sighs. “But, seriously, Lardo, what the hell do I do?”

She puts her hand on his shoulder. “Bro,” she says, solemn, “to quote Holster, you gotta put your big boy pants on and talk it out with Jack.”

Bitty finally gives in to the urge to start banging his head against the table. Lardo sips on her drink in solidarity and waits him out.

“Relationships, man,” she says, heartfelt, when he finally stops. “Always gotta screw you over.”

Bitty just sits there and groans.

 

___ 

 

Bitty acknowledges the fact that he needs to communicate with Jack about his newfound revelations like a responsible adult, and then he proceeds to completely ignore the topic for the next three weeks. 

“Bits?” Jack says one evening while they’re having dinner. 

“Mmhm?” Bitty replies, distracted by his thoughts. 

“Did, uh—did Parse make you mad or something?” 

Bitty stops fiddling with his fork and stares up at Jack, wide-eyed. Jack is staring anxiously back, both hands hidden beneath the table, and Bitty would bet a year’s salary that they’re clenched into fists. 

“No, honey,” Bitty says immediately. “Why would you—of course I’m not mad!” 

“Okay,” Jack says slowly. “Should I tell him that, then?” 

Bitty stares at his boyfriend like he’s grown a second head. “What?” 

Jack looks down at his plate, breaking eye contact. “It’s just, uh, Parse wanted to know. If he made you mad. And I told him you were fine, but then he mentioned that you haven’t been talking. And he mentioned a bunch of other things, like how you haven’t interacted with him on twitter or Instagram, not even to like his cat photos. And he was right, that’s kind of weird, you  _always_ like his cat photos, so something was probably up, except he didn’t know what, and I didn’t know what, so—” 

“Jack,” Bitty says, interrupting the deluge of words, “baby, I promise I’m not mad at him. I’ve just been—busy.” 

Jack gives him a doubtful look, which—alright, that’s fair, Bitty’s spent the last week and a half complaining about how bored he’s been at work. He hasn’t exactly been the poster child for industriousness. 

Bitty sighs and tries to deflect. He really doesn’t want to talk about his inconvenient possible crush—on Kent Parson of all people!—just yet. “Is it really that weird, honey? Friends don’t have to constantly be in touch with each other to be fine.” 

“But you need to,” Jack counters. 

Bitty wrinkles his nose. “That’s not true,” he protests. 

“Bittle, I’m serious, he’s really sorry,” Jack says instead of arguing back. “He’ll apologize for whatever it is as soon as you let him know, and he’ll do his best not to do it again. Promise.” 

Bitty stares at Jack. Jack  _hates_ being the middleman in any conversation, preferring to force people to talk directly to each other, but here he is, offering to be the go-between Bitty and Kent like it’s not _completely_ out of character. Bitty’s not the only one who’s acting weird here. “Jack,” he says slowly, “why is it so important that Kent and I are on good terms?” 

Jack frowns, crossing his arms. “It’s just—Parse doesn’t really care what people think about him. But sometimes he does, if it’s his teammates or his friends. People who matter. And you—you’re his friend. He’s just anxious, and I—I don’t want you to be mad at him. So if he messed up, I want to tell him how. He’s terrible at realizing it sometimes, and if he can’t figure it out on his own, he starts making up completely implausible situations and working himself up, and it’s just—it’s just a mess.” 

Bitty tries to make sense of that. “So…you don’t want Kent to be upset?” he ventures. 

Jack startles. “No! I mean, yes, of course I don’t want him to be upset, but what I want most is for _you_ not to be upset. And if he’s upsetting you, that’s no good, either.” 

Bitty chews on his lip. “Well, I’m not mad at him, honey, I promise.” 

“Okay,” Jack says, still alternating between staring at his plate and darting looks at Bitty. 

Bitty relents, getting up out of his chair and going to sit in the one directly beside Jack’s. “Honey,” he says, taking Jack’s hand, “I _swear_ I’m not mad at him. It’s something else, I promise.” 

Jack squints at him suspiciously. “So there _is_ a problem.” 

Bitty rolls his eyes. “Kind of, but believe me when I say you trying to pull a Miss Marple on me isn’t gonna help matters.” 

“Miss Marple?” Jack says blankly. 

“Yes, you know, that Agatha Christie character? My Moo Maw’s obsessed with her, she’s—never mind, that’s not the point.” Bitty waves a dismissive hand. “Point is, it’s not anything Kent did, so you two just calm down, alright?” 

Jack frowns at him. “Bittle.” 

Bitty rubs at his forehead, still keeping his hand in Jack’s. “In the interest of complete honesty, I just want to say that I  _wasn’t_ going to bring it up tonight because I wanted us to have a nice dinner before you go on that roadie of yours,” he says firmly. 

Jack frowns harder. “Bits, how long have you been putting this off?” he asks. 

Bitty can’t help smiling despite himself. That’s the terrible thing about dating somebody for a while, he supposes—they get a pretty good read on all your bad habits. “Not that long,” he hedges. “Just—I had to process things first. Talk it over with Lardo.”

Jack narrows his eyes. “You talked about Kent with Lardo?” _And not with me?_ remains the unspoken question, but it’s still pointedly there. 

“You’ll understand in just a second,” Bitty says. 

“Okay,” Jack says, doubtful. 

They sit there in silence for a couple more moments. 

“Bits,” Jack prompts, a stressed note in his voice. 

“I’m working on it!” Bitty bursts out, fighting a blush. Oh, Lord, how is he ever going to look his boyfriend in the eye again? 

“Just tell me,” Jack pleads, squeezing his hand.

“I’ve been having sex dreams about Kent!” Bitty blurts out. 

Jack just stares at him while his face goes red as a lobster. Oh, well, he knew it was a losing battle from the start. Bitty sits there and stares back, helpless. 

“Okay,” Jack says, wooden. “And—does this mean you want to—?” 

“I’m not going to cheat on you! Ever!” Bitty interrupts. “I just—I don’t even know why it’s happening, honestly, it’s not like I _want_ to dream about him, God, it makes everything so much more awkward—I haven’t been able to talk to him normally in months, it’s _terrible—”_  

Jack chuckles, and Bitty stops talking abruptly. “Jack Laurent Zimmermann, are you _laughing_ at me?” he demands. 

“No,” Jack says unconvincingly, and Bitty makes a face at him. “Okay, maybe a little,” Jack relents. “It’s just that I don’t think Parse would be annoyed at all. I think he’d be flattered, actually.” 

“Flattered,” Bitty says, deadpan. “You sure you don’t mean ‘insufferably smug?’” 

“Well, that, too,” Jack says, the corner of his mouth ticking up in a smile. “This _is_ Parse we’re talking about. But, seriously, of all our friends to have a sex dream about, it’s best if it’s Parse. He’d take it in stride, you know.” 

Bitty looks at his boyfriend for a moment, thoughts suddenly racing. _“You’re_ taking it awfully in stride,” he says, not quite a question, not quite an accusation, but not entirely _not_ either of those things, too. 

Jack grimaces slightly before meeting his gaze, looking him square in the eye. “Well, yeah. I mean, it’s not like I don’t sometimes have them, too.” 

Bitty stares, open-mouthed. _“What?”_ he shrieks.

Jack winces, cheeks turning a ruddy red, but he doesn’t look away. “Uh. Well. Sometimes I dream about Parse?” 

“Oh, are you asking _me_ the question?” Bitty says, taking refuge in sarcasm and laughing a little, the sound more bitter than he wants it to be. 

Jack shakes his head. “No, it’s—oh, you were joking. Well, it’s—I don’t know, I don’t want you to feel bad. It’s just a thing, so you shouldn’t feel guilty over it. Parse is attractive, so it’s natural, isn’t it? It’s just hormones, it’s not anything I _consciously_ want, so it doesn’t count, right?” 

Hearing his own internal arguments so plainly stated puts a twist in Bitty’s stomach that he doesn’t really want to name. “Uh-huh,” he says, his turn to look down at his plate. He starts fiddling with his fork again. “That—that makes sense. It’s not that you—that you don’t—” 

“Bits,” Jack interrupts, his voice urgent, “Bits, I would never cheat on you, you know that.” 

“Of course,” Bitty answers swiftly, reflexive, even as he wonders how the tables turned so completely in so little time. 

Jack seems to realize the same thing at the same time, because he reaches over and grasps Bitt’s hand. “Bitty,” he says, serious, his eyes clear and unwavering, “I promise, it really doesn’t mean anything. Not one bit as much as _you_ mean, alright?” 

And Bitty can’t help but bite down on his lip at that, his incisor worrying the corner of his mouth. “No, I know,” he says, his voice hesitant. 

“Bits—” 

“I know,” he repeats, because he _does._ It’s only—well. Jack’s dreams may mean nothing to him emotionally, but _Bitty’s_ dreams are something else entirely. 

He sighs, his stomach sinking as he realizes he’s _really_ going to have to come clean, isn’t he? Just his luck. 

“Jack,” he says carefully. “I believe you, honey, honest—oh, please don’t interrupt,” he bursts out when Jack opens his mouth. “It’s hard enough to get through this as it is.” He takes a deep breath, grateful when Jack just waits expectantly. “Um. So,” he begins, halting, uncertain, “the thing is—I called them sex dreams, honey, but they’re really more like—like—like sex and _romance_ dreams, if I’m bein’ truthful.” 

Jack furrows his brow. “What?” 

Bitty grips his hand tighter. “I, um, I dreamed Kent told me that he—well, that he loved me.” 

Jack stares. 

Bitty starts rambling, saying, “Okay, so I have no idea where that came from either, honest! I mean, they _started_ normally enough, like, it was just me and him and his ridiculously sexy mouth—but then I started dreaming of _you_ joining in, too—” 

Jack makes a choked noise. 

“—and everything started going downhill from there. You know I can’t think of you without going all gooey and mushy inside, and I guess my feelings got all mixed up, because I started having them about Kent, too, and next thing I know he was declaring his love for me! And I—and I—well, I started telling him I loved him, too. In the dreams.” 

Dead silence fills the room. 

Bitty continues in a whisper: “And I just felt so _awful,_ honey. It was _worse_ than the sex, because if I was dreaming about us cuddling, and kissing, and saying ‘I love you’s’ like I _meant_ them, then—then I can’t really pretend that I don’t, can I?” 

Bitty squeezes his eyes shut. “I think I’ve got feelings for Kent,” he confesses aloud for the first time ever, “and I don’t think they’re platonic. It’s not just sex, and it’s not just us bein’ friends, and it’s—Jack, I get butterflies in my stomach when I think about him sometimes. And my heart skips a beat whenever I see that he’s textin’ me or callin’ me. It’s—well, it’s bad, honey.” 

He stops talking, and waits for Jack’s reaction. 

Jack clears his throat. “So you… _like_ Parse?” 

Bitty keeps his eyes closed and nods shakily. 

“Oh.” 

That’s all that gets said, and eventually Bitty caves and cracks an eye open, unable to stand the suspense any longer. 

What greets his gaze is Jack’s frowning face, conflict written all over him in a way that’s both achingly familiar and surprisingly steadying, because Bitty can clearly tell that anger isn’t the dominant emotion he’s struggling with. 

After a moment, Jack says, his brow furrowed and his gaze directed at the ceiling, obviously deep in thought, “But you don’t want to do anything about it.” 

“Of course not!” Bitty says. 

“Okay,” Jack says slowly, glancing back down at him. “Because of me?” 

Bitty glares at him. “Obviously! I already said I’m not cheating on you!” 

“No, I knew that,” Jack says, matter-of-fact, “even before you said so. At the beginning, I was actually going to ask if you wanted to break up with me—” 

“No!” Bitty says, horrified. “How can you even think—” 

“Bits,” Jack interrupts, frowning again, “can I talk this through first?” He catches sight of Bitty’s outraged face, and says, somewhat sheepishly, “Sorry, I know you really want to tell me stuff, I just keep losing my train of thought.” 

Bitty grimaces, but nods. “I’m sorry, too,” he offers. “I know it’s tough, honey, and I’m not giving you any space to get your thoughts in order, even though you gave _me_ time. I promise I’ll stay quiet for as long as you need, too.” 

Jack accepts his apology and offer by raising Bitty’s knuckles to his lips in silent thanks. “So,” he says, continuing to rub his thumb soothingly along the back of Bitty’s hand, “you said you dreamed of all three of us, right?” 

Bitty nods, his face aflame. 

Jack nods, too. “So obviously you still want me.” He looks for Bitty’s confirmation, smiling a little when Bitty nods so vehemently it feels like his head might fall off. “That’s good,” he continues. “That was my main worry, honestly—that you’d fallen out of love with me, I mean.” 

Bitty grits his teeth but manages not to yell out a denial. Barely, but he manages it. 

Jack’s smile widens, like he knows the effort it takes him. “So, if we’re getting all the facts straight: you still love me, and we’re not going to break up.” 

Bitty nods fervently. 

“But you also like Parse, uh, in a not-friends kind of way. More than you wanted to.” 

Bitty makes a face, but nods again. 

“But you’re not going to do anything about it.” 

Bitty nods once, emphatic. 

Jack’s eyebrow ticks up. “Is there a reason why not, though? Besides you thinking I wouldn’t be okay with it?” 

Bitty blinks, startled into speaking: “Wait, what do you mean you would be okay with it? Are you seriously suggesting you’d be fine if I pursued _Kent Parson?”_  

Jack tilts his head. “Well. Maybe?” 

Bitty nearly falls off his chair. 

 

___ 

 

An hour and a half later, Bitty has a whole new perspective on his boyfriend. 

“I can’t believe you’re okay with having an open relationship,” Bitty says for possibly the fifteenth time. 

Jack wrinkles his nose. “Bits, I said it wouldn’t be—” 

Bitty waves a hand. “Yes, yes, yes—we’re opening this up to Kent only, I get that, it’s just— _really?”_  

Jack shrugs, trying for casual, though the stiff line of his shoulders tells Bitty that he’s feeling far from it. “I mean, why not?” 

“I can think of a dozen reasons off the top of my head,” Bitty says, laughing in disbelief. 

Jack frowns. “Bits—” 

“For one thing, I don’t even know if I want to be polyamorous.” Though to be fair, now that the offer was on the table, it _was_ looking mighty…tempting. But Bitty’s somehow stuck trying to be the reasonable one here, and now he has to talk his boyfriend out of convincing him to go out and get a _second_ boyfriend, good Lord. He doesn’t have time to get distracted by ludicrous hypotheticals.

God, why couldn’t he have started dreaming of Tater instead? Somehow he suspects that they would _not_ be having this conversation if he had.

“That’s fair,” Jack says, and Bitty pulls himself from his thoughts to find his boyfriend nodding. 

He clears his throat. “Second of all, Kent’s probably not going to be interested—” Bitty stops midsentence, distracted by the sudden smirk on Jack’s face. “What?” 

Jack shakes his head. “No, it’s just—I mean, you _are_ talking about Parse.” 

Bitty stares at him, wondering if that’s supposed to illuminate anything. Newsflash: it does not. “And?”

“And Parse thinks you’re hot,” Jack says slowly, in the tone of voice of someone who thinks he’s saying something completely obvious instead of _blatant lies._

 _“He does not!”_ Bitty yelps. 

Jack’s smirk widens. “Yes, he does.” 

“No, he doesn’t!” 

“Yes, he does,” Jack says, with all the patience and stubbornness of a man whose third-favorite past-time is calling Shitty to remind him that pineapples are mutant berries. 

“No, he—oh, God, let’s hypothetically say he _does,”_ Bitty partly concedes, “how would you even know this?” 

Jack’s face flushes an interesting shade of red, and Bitty’s temporarily distracted by the pretty picture he makes. “It, uh, may have come up in conversation.” 

Bitty narrows his eyes. “You got drunk and started raving about my butt again,” he accuses. 

At least Jack has the decency to look mildly abashed when he nods in agreement. 

Bitty rolls his eyes. “Well, honey, just because Kent agreed with your drunken ode to my behind while he was _also_ wasted does not mean he actually thinks I’m hot.” 

Jack’s mouth opens to argue with him, and Bitty cuts him off. “Moving on! Even if by some miracle he _does_ want to try it, there are about a gazillion problems, not least which that he lives on the other side of the country, he’s technically still closeted, and—and, look, it’s _Kent Parson._ I can’t possibly date Kent Parson, not when I’m already dating you!” Bitty waves his arms, trying to get Jack to see the fundamental problem. “There’s—there’s gotta be a law against that kind of thing! Dating _two_ NHL players at once? Think about the karmic retribution I’ll be risking—it’d be a crime against the universe to pull that off! I’d use up all my luck at once, honey, and you know I need my luck—I’m just not doing it.” Bitty nods, satisfied with that argument. 

Jack is leaning against the table, clearly laughing at him, and Bitty has half a mind to wad up his napkin and throw it at his big stupid head. “Bits,” Jack says, lips turned up in that goofy grin that always melts Bitty’s heart, “that’s ridiculous.” 

“It’s not!” 

“It is,” Jack says, shaking his head. “Karmically speaking, if anybody deserves to have two boyfriends, it’s you, Bittle,” Jack says, his voice warm and earnest. 

_Oh._

“Oh,” Bitty says aloud. “But I—but you—but, honey, are you  _sure?”_

“Yes, Bitty,” Jack says, gaze unwavering, voice steady, “I’m sure.” 

“But—but what if it doesn’t work out?” Bitty forces the sentence out in a rush, his throat going tight at the thought. “What if—what if this ruins everything? It’s bad enough that I already can’t talk to him normally, but it’ll be so much worse if we try something and it doesn’t work out. If I let this ridiculous crush die, then nothing has to change.” 

And Bitty—Bitty _likes_ how things are now. Likes chirping Kent for his fashion sense on twitter, likes getting ridiculous Buzzfeed quizzes at midnight, likes texting him pictures of cats he sees on his walks. He likes how Kent keeps the guest room open for them when they’re in Vegas, likes having Kent in his kitchen when he visits, likes how happy Jack looks when Kent is sitting across from them, a look in his eyes that says he can’t quite believe it, like he never expected to get this back. 

Bitty’s not sure he wants to risk all that just because of a few stupid sex dreams. Dreams are dreams. The friendship they’ve built with Kent is reality, and Bitty’s not willing to give it up, not for anything.

Jack winces. “Bitty—” 

“And are you  _really_ okay with this?” Bitty presses. “Because I don’t think I want a relationship with anyone else unless you’re involved, too. We’re a package deal, Jack.” 

Jack shakes his head. “That’s not going to work with Parse,” he says, impatient. “He doesn’t want me that way anymore, and for good reason. We weren’t any good for each other, Bits, you know that.” 

Bitty notes how Jack has neatly avoided mentioning how  _he_ feels about Parse, and thinks to himself,  _Bingo._

“What I know is that you two were kids the last time you tried something,” Bitty says, treading carefully. “The both of you have grown up. You’re different people now—” 

“We’re not,” Jack says bluntly.

Bitty shakes his head, insistent. “You _are._ And you’re plenty good for each other now, honey—or are you telling me he isn’t one of your closest friends again?”

“That’s just it, we’re only friends,” Jack says, frustrated. “We’re not anything more. And I don’t want—I meant it when I said my feelings for him were just physical.” 

Bitty squints at him, suspicious. “Are they, though?” he asks, point-blank. 

Jack blanches. “Crisse, Bitty, of course they are! I wouldn’t risk—I mean, I have you.” 

“Hmmm,” Bitty says, narrowing his eyes. “And like I said earlier, I have _you,_ so neither of us need to do anything about this, do we?” 

Jack frowns sullenly. “I guess,” he agrees. 

“Then we’re done with this, right?” Bitty asks, insistent. 

Jack shrugs, avoiding his gaze. “I guess we are.” 

Bitty bites his lip and goes over to Jack, hugging his side. “I love you so much, you know that, right?”

Jack looks up at that, a smile tugging at his mouth. “Yeah, Bits, I know. I love you, too.”

“Good,” Bitty says decisively. “Then let’s not worry about this, okay? I don’t want to start anything without you being involved, and if you don’t want to be involved, then I’m just not going to start anything.”

Jack pauses, but eventually says, “Okay.” 

And, well, that really _should_ be that, Bitty thinks. He leans up to kiss Jack, and decides to put this entire discussion behind him.

 

___ 

 

Except  _even then,_ the damn dreams don’t stop. 

“I hate you,” Bitty whispers at his reflection, wild-eyed. It is five in the godforsaken morning, and he’s got a hell of a hard-on and the false memory of Kent Parson writhing underneath him to deal with. “We need to stop this—this isn’t healthy. It isn’t _right."_

His reflection has no answer for him that he’s willing to entertain, just a certain harrowed, knowing look.

Bitty trudges toward the shower.

 

___ 

 

And then _Jack_ catches him at it. As if this whole thing couldn’t get any more mortifying.

“I’m so sorry,” Bitty says, his hands over his face, Jack’s hand still resting on his shoulder from where he shook him awake.

“It’s fine, Bits,” Jack says kindly. He pauses. “I mean…you said my name, too.” 

Well...yes. Yes, he did. Bitty puts down his hands and stares at Jack’s too-innocent face. It only takes a second before the façade cracks, and Jack’s smirk peeks through. 

Bitty lets out a put-upon huff before hauling his boyfriend down for a kiss. 

 

___ 

 

“Are we going to talk about this yet?” Jack asks after, trailing a hand up and down Bitty’s side.

“Mmrph.” 

“Bits,” Jack says, mild but insistent. 

Bitty flops onto his back with a sigh. “Do we have to?” he complains. 

“I think we do,” Jack says. “It’s not getting any better, is it?” 

“Hey, I’m talking to Kent normally now!” Bitty protests.

(Well. For a given value of ‘normal.’ They’re talking again, at least, and Bitty’s 99% sure Kent doesn’t have a clue about his inconvenient crush on him. 

…97%, at the  _very_ least.) 

Jack lets out an amused snort. “Bits,” he says, a wealth of meaning in one syllable. 

“Oh, fine! Yes, it isn’t getting any better! Are you happy now?” Bitty says, cross. 

Jack drops the faint smile he had on, his face going serious. “Bitty, I don’t want you to be miserable,” he says gently, “and this whole situation—well.” 

It’s making him miserable. Jack doesn’t have to tell him that; he knows it’s true. “I just feel so bad,” Bitty admits. “It’s like I’m _cheating_ on you. Like you aren’t enough for me.”

“Bits—that's not what’s going on at all,” Jack says, tipping Bitty’s chin up so Bitty _has_ to meet his earnest blue eyes. “Love doesn’t work that way, you know that.”

“It’s not love,” Bitty denies, his voice wobbling as he looks away. “How can it be love? I don’t—we haven’t even—I just _like_ him a lot, for some weird reason.”

“Yeah, bud,” Jack says softly. “I know how that feels.”

Bitty looks back at him sharply, Jack meeting his gaze head-on. “Are you talking about back then, or—?”

“I’m talking about now,” Jack admits, completely bowling Bitty over.

“And when did you have this revelation?” Bitty demands. 

“…there may have been a conversation or three with Shitty involved.” 

Bitty snorts. “Figures.” 

Jack’s mouth tilts up briefly into a smile before he goes serious again. “Anyway, I’ve been thinking it over, and you—you were right, Bitty. It’s not just physical. It’s _Parse._ They may be complicated as hell, but my feelings for him aren’t just platonic. And if I—if _we_ tried something, I think it could work. You, and me, and him.” Jack swallows hard before asking, “What do you think?”

“I think,” Bitty replies, his heart thudding in his chest from the unexpected spike of hope, “that we’d better ask him out so we can find out.”

Jack’s blinding grin makes it a little difficult to kiss him properly, but Bitty manages somehow. 

 

___ 

 

To be honest, Bitty and Jack’s eventual coming-to-terms of their mutual shared feelings for Kent Parson were the definition of extremely ill-timed, considering that they had them about a week before pre-season officially started, and both Jack and Kent started getting incredibly busy. 

There wasn’t really a right time to bring up the question, not without sounding awkward as hell. What was Bitty supposed to do, just blurt out, ‘Hey, would you ever consider maybe having a threesome with me and my boyfriend, who just so happens to be your ex? We’ve been talking about it, and it sounds like a lot of fun, don’t you think!’ 

Yeah, right, like _that_ would go over well. 

So, Bitty and Jack hash out their strategy: 

They’ll ask Kent in person the next time he’s in Providence—invite him over and then casually include him in their date-night: dinner (cooked expertly by Bitty, of course), a movie in (probably _Goon_ or _Crazy Stupid Love,_ because Jack and Kent were sadly predictable), then after, they’ll spring the question on him—

—and, according to Jack, most likely transition directly to the bedroom.

“Jack!” Bitty says, halfway between scandalized and aroused.

“What? You can’t tell me you think he’s not the type to put out on the first date. This is _Parse_ we’re talking about.”

“...true,” Bitty says, frowning. Then a thought occurs to him: “So, did he put out on _your_ first date?”

Jack’s whole face turning red is the only answer he needs. 

“Well, then,” Bitty says primly. “It looks like we’re all set.”

 

___ 

 

Then the day of their first date arrives. 

For the first two hours, everything goes according to plan, which honestly should’ve been Bitty’s first clue that things were going to take a downhill turn. 

Bitty lays the blame squarely at Kent’s door.

It’s Aces vs. Falcs, the last game of a five-game roadie, and Kent’s got the next few days off, so of course he’s going to be staying over after. It’s the perfect time to try and see if he’d be interested in a something more. 

“Hey,” Kent says when Bitty opens the door, a smirk on his ridiculously handsome face, one hand braced on the doorjamb, the other holding a bouquet of jaunty yellow tulips. “These are for Zimms, by the way,” he says, pressing them into Bitty’s hands. 

“Oh!” Bitty says, surprised. “Thank you?” 

“Welcome,” Kent says, cheerful. “I figured I’d be magnanimous in my victory, you know?” 

Bitty pushes down the bubble of laughter threatening to escape and pulls on a mock-glare, frowning at Kent. “We’ll get you next time, you know,” he says airily. 

“Ha! You wish,” Kent says, pushing past him into the house. “Yo, Jack! You got a vase in this house? I got you some flowers to console you. I mean, come on, you scored a hat trick and _still_ your team lost to mine? Jesus, my heart just breaks for you, it really does.”

“I can see that,” Jack says dryly, appearing in the doorway. Bitty can’t see, since Kent’s back is turned to him, but Kent _must_ be grinning; nothing else could put that particular fond, wry look on Jack’s face.

“So! Where’s the grub? I distinctly remember being promised some victory pie,” Kent says, looking over his shoulder and tossing a wink in Bitty’s direction.

The sight is—strangely familiar, which of course it is. Bitty’s been watching Kent wink in interviews and over snapchat and even in person often enough these past few months, but Bitty feels himself blush anyway, because the most recent time he’s seen Kent do it is in his dreams, and it was usually a precursor to, well,  _other_ things.

Bitty clears his throat and gets himself under control. “It’s on the cooling rack, where it belongs,” he shoots back, all showy irritation. “We’re not going to have dessert first, you godless heathen.”

“Ooh, is it cherry?” Kent asks, ignoring Bitty’s admonition right on cue, and this, _this_ Bitty can handle. Trading chirps back and forth is what he and Kent were _made_ to do.

“Of course it’s cherry,” Bitty says, sniffing disdainfully. “You think I’d bake anything else for tonight’s winner?” 

Bitty is rewarded with Kent’s cheeky smile softening into something sweeter. “Thanks,” Kent says with quiet sincerity, and then he’s swinging back around and hip-checking Jack as he passes by, snickering as Jack automatically tries to lock an elbow around his neck to deliver a noogie in retaliation.

“Boys,” Bitty says with false exasperation, ignoring how light he feels, as if he’s floating away on happiness. “Dinner?” 

Jack and Kent look up at him simultaneously, falling in-sync the way they always do if they spend more than fifteen minutes in each other’s company. “Dinner,” they agree in tandem, Jack with a nod and Kent with a smirk.

Bitty ushers them both into the dining room, and thinks he could definitely get used to this.

 

___ 

 

Dinner goes fine. The food is fantastic, if Bitty says so himself, and the conversation flows easily, a mix of Kent and Jack talking shop and swapping increasingly obnoxious jokes, and Kent and Bitty sharing gossip and shamelessly chirping each other. Bitty and Jack keep the conversation centered on Kent, deliberately sitting across from each other so they’re on either side of him. Kent keeps swinging his head to turn from Bitty to Jack, caught neatly between them, and Bitty doesn’t think he’s imagining Kent’s blush whenever he places a hand on Kent’s arm to emphasize a point, or whenever Jack leans closer to look at pictures on Kent’s phone, brushing their shoulders together in the process.

 _See how easy it could be,_ Bitty wants to tell him.  _See how we’d take such good care of you, if you were ours._

Then an idea occurs to him, and he has to bite down on his lip to hide his smile. 

Deliberately catching Jack’s eye, underneath the table he lightly taps Jack’s foot with one of his own, then slides a glance in Kent’s direction and raises an eyebrow. _Should I_ _…_ _?_

Jack’s eyes widen a fraction, then he’s giving Bitty a small nod.  _Go ahead._

Bitty doesn’t try hiding his smile this time. He moves his foot and gently nudges one of Kent’s socked feet, rubbing his toes suggestively over the top of Kent’s foot to the bend of his ankle. 

Delightfully, Kent’s blush deepens from a slight pink to a bright red, and he jumps in his seat. He tries to withdraw his foot from beneath Bitty’s, but Bitty changes tack to run it halfway up his calf instead. 

Kent chokes on his food in response, and Bitty pulls his foot back, objective completed. 

“What’s up, bud?” Jack asks him as he coughs, reaching over to thump Kent lightly on the back. 

“Nothing, nothing,” Kent says, clearing his throat. “Just—wrong pipe. Uh, would you—could you get me another beer, dude? I’m parched.” 

Jack’s mouth ticks up into a smile. “You mean you’re Parser-ed,” he replies. 

Kent makes a face as Bitty laughs. “Dude, that doesn’t even make any sense. Get your dad jokes away from me, you old man,” Kent complains. 

“You’re older than me,” Jack says as he gets up. 

“By one month!” Kent says. 

“Still counts,” Bitty contributes, leaning his chin against his hand and smiling widely at Kent. 

“Yeah, yeah, gang up on the senior citizen.” Kent rolls his eyes. 

As soon as Jack is out of the dining room, however, Kent drops his façade and fiddles with his fork. “Uh, please don’t take this the wrong way, but you, uh, you accidentally got me instead of Jack just now when you—you know.” He gestures broadly, still not meeting Bitty’s gaze. 

Bitty basks in the rare sight of Kent being awkward and shy, deciding to tease him a little more. “Hm?” Bitty asks, widening his eyes to look as innocent as possible. “What’re you talking about?” 

Kent closes his eyes. “Oh, my God,” he groans, “I can’t believe you’re making me say this, you awful, awful person, but maybe don’t play footsie with your boyfriend when you’ve got a guest at your table. You might get the wrong guy.” 

“Kent,” Bitty says, frowning. That’s not the turn he wants this conversation to take. “I didn’t get the wrong guy.” 

Kent barks a laugh. “Oh, trust me, buddy, you definitely did.” 

“Kent—” 

“Got your beer, Parse,” Jack says as he comes back in, and Kent immediately straightens and flashes him a smile, leaving Bitty to blink at the shift in his demeanor. 

“Thanks, dude.” Kent takes a can, then rolls his eyes as he catches sight of the label. “Oh, God, not another one of your craft beers. What exactly do you have against Natty Light, huh?” 

Bitty gags, recovering his equanimity. “Is this even a question?” 

“Since I’m asking it, obviously,” Kent tosses back, smirking, and that’s—that’s better. 

What’s even better than  _that_ is when they move to the living room and sit Kent between them on the couch, Jack on his right side and Bitty on his left. Over the course of the movie _(Crazy, Stupid, Love,_ because Kent got to choose), Jack drapes his arm over Kent’s shoulders and Bitty leans comfortably against his side, trapping him neatly between them. 

“You good, bud?” Jack asks when Kent shifts. 

“Yeah, of course,” Kent answers, keeping his eyes locked on the screen, and Bitty and Jack exchange satisfied smiles.

And then, near the end of the third quarter of the movie, right after Ryan Gosling’s character does the Dirty Dancing move with Emma Stone, Kent gets up and says, “I’m gonna make some more popcorn.” 

“Sure,” Jack says. 

“You’re not even eating any,” Bitty points out, which is true—it’s the middle of the season, neither Kent nor Jack are consuming excess carbs, the teeny tiny slice of the cherry crumble both of them had indulged in after dinner being the only cheat item on their list. 

“Yeah, but you’re out,” Kent says, and steals the bowl out of Bitty’s lap. “Be right back. Don’t pause the movie, I’ve memorized this whole scene anyway.” 

Bitty watches him go, then turns to Jack and quietly whispers, “Am I _honestly_ supposed to stop myself from having a crush on him when he acts like that? My subconscious is vindicated.”

“Sure, Bits,” Jack says, smirking, and Bitty makes a face at him. 

When Kent gets back, they’re at the part where Steve Carrell is mowing the lawn, and Bitty is hopelessly riveted to the screen, despite having watched this movie at least five times since making Kent’s acquaintance. He can’t help it—he’s a romantic at heart.

“Hey, scoot over,” Kent tells him, and Bitty nods, and scoots over, batting a hand at Kent when he tries to push him further. 

“Bits, I don’t have room,” Kent says, laughing. 

“Shhh, we’re at the part where Julianne Moore is lying about the pilot light,” Bitty whispers back, but he moves further anyway until he’s pressed right up against Jack’s side. 

“Uh,” Jack says. 

“Shhh!” Bitty says, then takes the bowl Kent hands him without taking his eyes from the screen, shoving a handful of popcorn in his mouth. 

“Bits—” Jack tries. 

“Shhhhhh,” both Kent and Bitty say this time, Bitty catching Kent’s smirk out of the corner of his eye, but he doesn’t pay attention too closely, distracted by the movie. Although— 

Bitty stops munching on the popcorn, registering the flavor. “Kent, did you put real butter in this?” 

“Mmhm,” Kent says, and when Bitty looks over, he’s grinning at him. 

He’s also wedged into the far corner of the couch, a conspicuous three feet of space between him and Bitty, unless you count the leg he’s got propped up in the middle, which Bitty does not. 

Bitty blinks, suddenly understanding the tense dissatisfaction in Jack’s body, the way Kent seamlessly and smoothly maneuvered things to extricate himself from between them. 

 _Oh,_ Bitty thinks, a little hurt, which is stupid now that he thinks about it. Maybe Kent just got overheated. Maybe it was making him claustrophobic, being in the middle. Maybe—maybe this was just a misguided attempt to try and give Jack and Bitty some space when they don’t actually need it.

“Kent,” Bitty starts intent on clearing the misunderstanding up, but Kent’s phone buzzes loudly on the coffee table, drawing everyone’s attention. 

“Shit.” Kent grimaces, stopping the alarm. “I gotta head out.” 

“Head out?” Bitty parrots. “Why?” 

Kent gives him a look of genuine confusion. “I’ll be late for my flight otherwise, duh.” 

“Your flight?” Bitty repeats, equally confused. 

“Well, yeah? I gotta head out tonight,” Kent says, matter-of-fact. 

“But why?” Jack asks, tone flat. “I thought you were staying with us.” 

Kent’s eyes grow wide. “Shit, man, sorry. I forgot to tell you—I can’t stay. It’s Angela’s birthday party tomorrow. You know, Chopper’s kid?” Kent says, naming one of the Aces’ d-men. “I’m her godfather, guys, I can’t miss it. She’s turning four.” 

“Oh,” Bitty says. He musters a smile from somewhere. “Well, tell her congratulations from us! You should’ve said. I’d have made her cookies or something, or—you know what, I still have a leftover batch, here, let me—” 

“Nah, it’s fine,” Kent says, stopping him by pulling him into a brief hug, then turning and hauling Jack up to deliver the same, slapping his back for good measure. “Don’t trouble yourselves, it’s cool. We got it covered, and I really gotta get going. Thanks for having me over, and we’ll do the whole sleepover thing some other day, yeah?” 

“Yeah,” Bitty echoes, heart sinking to his feet as Kent half-jogs down to the entryway, pulling on his shoes and then shouldering his duffel bag, suspiciously small now that Bitty thinks about it. Kent, despite extensive experience traveling, _still_ managed to overpack for any stay with friends. In hindsight, it’s clear that he didn’t bring enough for the two-day visit Bitty and Jack thought they’d have with him.

“Alright,” Kent says, pulling his snapback low over his forehead, “my ride’s here. Bitty, Jack, thanks for having me over. I’ll see you guys the next time you come to Vegas, yeah?” 

“Of course,” Bitty says, his smile still pinned weakly in place. “You—you text us when you land safely, you hear?” 

“Will do!” Kent says, cheerful, and with one last two-fingered salute, he’s out the door and out of sight, the door swinging shut behind him. 

“Well,” Bitty says, breaking the silence that follows, “that didn’t go at  _all_ how I thought it would.” 

“Yeah.” Jack’s still staring at the door, as if willing Kent to come back through sheer force of will. 

Bitty clears his throat, refocusing. “I guess…we’re going to have to try again,” Bitty replies, and is gratified to see Jack’s face clear, determination replacing the air of melancholy. 

“Of course,” Jack seconds, then he smiles. “Should’ve known Parse wouldn’t make it easy on us.” 

Bitty laughs, reassured. 

 

___ 

 

The next opportunity comes not even a month later, when Bitty’s expected to attend some communications conference hosted out in Vegas, and Kent volunteers to host him for the duration. 

“I’ve got a perfectly good hotel room budgeted by my corporate overlords, I don’t see why I have to impose on you, Kent Virgil Parson,” Bitty says on the phone. 

Kent snorts on the other end. “The day the Hilton is considered ‘perfectly good’ is the day hell freezes over, to borrow one of your Southernisms,” he counters. “Stay at my place. View’s better, food’s better…” Kent pauses. “…company’s better, too.” 

“Oh, we sure do have a high opinion of ourselves now, don’t we, mister?” Bitty says. 

“Why, Mr. Bittle,” Kent says in an _atrocious_ fake Southern accent. “I ever do declare! I was talkin’ about my _cats,_ you _godless heathen!”_

“…how long have you been waiting to use that godless heathen phrase on me?”

Bitty can just _picture_ Kent’s smirk when he answers, “Ever since you first said it to me.” 

“Mmm.” 

“So,” Kent says slowly, drawing out the vowel, “have I convinced you?” 

Bitty sighs. “Yes, you have, Mr. Parson. I guess I’ll be seeing you in Vegas.” 

“Cool beans,” Kent says, clearly pleased and just as clearly trying to play it down. “I’ll see you soon in Vegas.” 

“I’ll see you soon,” Bitty confirms, then presses his phone to his chest for a long, long moment after they hang up. 

“I’m so screwed,” he tells no one in particular. 

 

___ 

 

Jack drops him off at the airport, wishing him good luck with both his conference _and_ with their joint ulterior motive. The plane flight is largely uneventful, but when Bitty gets to the terminal, there’s a familiar face waiting to surprise him. 

He’s got a snapback perched jauntily forward on his head, obscuring his messy curls and the murky hazel of his eyes, but that smirk could only ever belong to one person, as does the sign that reads, ‘Yo, marry me, Eric Bittle.’ 

“What are you _doing_  here?!” Bitty says, helpless to do anything but smile back, a joyous warmth suffusing his chest at the sight of Kent.

“Picking you up, of course,” Kent replies, flipping the sign over in his hands and tucking it beneath an elbow so he can pull Bitty in for a one-armed hug, casual and all-too-brief. 

“You shouldn’t have,” Bitty admonishes, trying to sound displeased, but, well, that’s kind of hard to pull off when he’s grinning at Kent like a fool. 

“Of course I should’ve,” Kent says easily. “If I left you to navigate Vegas’s shuttle system, you would’ve ended up stranded at a stripper bar.” 

“Well, hon, in case you don’t remember,” Bitty says, rolling his eyes and finally getting his smile under control, “my name is _not_ ‘Jack Zimmermann,’ and I don’t have to stand here and be slandered like this.” 

Kent laughs out loud, and Bitty feels his smile stretch over his face so widely it almost hurts. 

 

___ 

 

“Thanks for putting me up,” Bitty says when he walks into Kent’s apartment. 

“No problem, dude,” Kent says, and Bitty would say something back, except he’s distracted by the absolute _beauty_ who comes and winds herself around his feet. 

“Oh, my goodness gracious,” Bitty whispers, dropping to his knees to pet her. “Oh, my. You must be Kit, huh? Oh, I’d recognize you anywhere, precious girl, oh, yes, just _look_ at you.” 

When he hears the snap of a camera shutter, Bitty looks up to see Kent taking a picture of him, shit-eating grin on his face. 

“Oh, that’s definitely going on her insta,” Kent says, and Bitty gets the notification a second later: 

_Look at my new admirer! Soon, he’ll be hand-feeding me. :)_

Bitty wrinkles his nose. “That confident, huh?” 

“Look at that face and tell me she doesn't have you wrapped around her paw,” Kent says. 

Bitty turns back to Kit, purring happily beneath his hands, and can’t disagree. “Point.” He clears his throat, and asks, “Where’s Purrs?” 

Kent waves a hand. “Ah, you’ll see him around. He’s a bit shy around strangers, but he’ll warm up once he sees Kit all over you.” Kent tilts his head to the side, grinning. “So, what do you wanna see first, my kitchen or my pool?” 

Bitty raises a brow and straightens up, careful not to dislodge Kit form his feet. “What do you think?” he says, planting a hand on his hip. 

Kent laughs. “Kitchen it is.” 

 

___ 

 

Sadly, Bitty  _does_ have to work during the day, spending hours going from overheated sidewalks to blessedly cool conference rooms in a constant cycle, but at night Kent takes him to see the sights, playing knowledgeable tour guide to Bitty’s (not-so-)reluctantly charmed newcomer. 

“I didn’t even know Vegas  _had_ a cat café,” Bitty says. 

“Bruh, Vegas has _everything,”_ Kent says with a leer. 

“Mm, is that so?” Bitty says, batting his eyelashes back. He’s been upping his flirting game lately, and Kent’s responded by flirting right back. Bitty is  _reasonably_ sure that that means he’d be open to at least try something with them; he’s a little sad that Jack won’t be here to seal the deal with him, but they’d both agreed that this was too good of a chance to pass up. Bitty wants to wait until they can all be together to make it to home base, so to speak, but he _is_ planning on coming home to Jack with at least a few hickeys for him to uncover. 

He smiles dreamily at Kent, looking forward to seeing if that mouth of his is even better in reality than it is in dreams. From the things Jack’s said, he rather expects the former. 

 

___ 

 

On his last night in Vegas, Kent takes Bitty out to club after club, and they dance the night away. 

Unfortunately, Bitty may also drink more than is necessarily advisable, leading him to this moment: 

Bitty watching Kent, and, more specifically, Kent’s _hands_ , wrapped snugly around his drink, which of course leads Bitty to start thinking about them wrapped around _Jack,_ which then leads to thoughts of Kent and Jack wrapped around  _him,_ and so he asks the stupidest possible question: 

“Have you ever had a threesome?” Bitty blurts out. 

Kent snorts a mouthful of his mimosa all over himself. 

“Oh, my God,” Bitty says, horrified. That was _definitely_ not the question he was intending to ask, at  _all,_ oh, God, he’s fucking this whole thing up—“I’m so sorry, please forget I asked that, I don’t know what I was thinking.” He grabs a couple napkins and hands them to Kent, clumsily patting down his throat and chest. 

Kent swallows hard and pulls away a bit, shaking his head. “No, no, it’s fine,” he says, a little wide-eyed still, but he takes over wiping himself off so Bitty’s hands are left with nothing to do but fall back into his lap and wring each other nervously. “That’s—it’s just—I wasn’t exactly expecting the question, you know?” 

Bitty nods fervently. “Yes, no, you’re absolutely correct, I have no idea why I asked that—it’s none of my business at all.” 

Well, except for the fact that he and Jack sort of  _want_ it to be their business, but they aren’t dating yet, and if he doesn’t want to run Kent off, he’d better stop asking him invasive, overly personal questions about his sexual history. 

 _You, sir, are far too drunk,_ Bitty admonishes himself, more than a little disgusted.  _Do_ not  _order any more margaritas, it is_ obviously  _not worth_ _it._

Kent clears his throat. “No, man, it’s cool, it’s just—” He laughs a little, his cheeks dusted lightly with red, and he ducks his head down. “Uh, how bad is my reputation, by the way?”

Bitty would answer, except accompanying Kent’s question was a little glance from underneath his golden lashes, unintentionally coy, and Bitty kind of lost his train of thought for a moment there. “Um,” he says, the height of eloquence. 

Kent winces. “That bad, huh?” he says ruefully. 

“No! Not at all! Just—well, I will admit you were the NHL player voted ‘Most Likely to Be Down for a Threesome’ at the Haus for three years running, but that’s no measure of your actual—actual—” 

“Actual threesome experiences?” Kent says, dry as an expensive white wine, and the combative look in his eye makes Bitty wants to take everything back immediately. But Kent just waves his hand, casually dismissive, then tilts his head side to side, working the kinks out of his neck. “It’s okay, Bits. It’s cool,” he repeats, mouth quirked. “I know I’ve got a reputation—I mean, I live in Vegas, I party pretty hard, and don’t get me wrong, I really, _really_ like sex—” 

 _Oh, do you?_ Bitty thinks, _completely_ inappropriately, but thankfully he’s managed to reinsert his brain-to-mouth filter, thank heavens, and prevents himself from saying it out loud. 

“—but I don’t, uh, actually have orgies in my penthouse apartment, you know? Contrary to tabloid gossip,” Kent states, something defensive in the line of his shoulders, and Bitty blinks. 

“Well, of course you wouldn’t, you don’t _have_ a penthouse apartment,” he replies automatically, and Kent breaks out into startled laughter. 

“Oh, Lord,” Bitty says, embarrassed. “I mean, of course you wouldn’t _in general_ —not that it’s  _wrong_ to have orgies, it’s just—honestly, you don’t seem the type to me,” he finishes, hoping that Kent understood what he was trying to convey through all his rambling. 

“Nah, I get it,” Kent says, and Bitty relaxes. “It’s just—I don’t know how to explain it, but that’s just not me, you know? The slutty sports star persona got old at, like, twenty-one, but people still think it applies. And, you know, I can’t actually _help_ the fact that I have a fuckboy face, it sort of comes with the bone structure.” He gestures at his cheekbones and rolls his eyes disparagingly. “What do people want me to do, get my face bashed in more often? Christ.” He shakes his head. “It wasn’t really anything you said, trust me, it just rubs me the wrong way when people assume all I’m good for are hook-ups.” 

Bitty’s mouth drops open. “That is _not_ all you are good for!” he says, outraged. “Who’s going around telling you this?” 

“Nobody in particular, Bits,” Kent says, leaning back. “Or everybody in general, take your pick.”

“Well, that’s not the slightest bit true,” Bitty says firmly. “If you were only good for one thing—which you’re _not,_ by the way—then obviously you’d only be good for taking selfies with your cats.” 

Kent smiles at him again, wide and real, and Bitty’s heart thumps loudly in his chest. He distracts himself by taking another big gulp out of his Long Island. “Anyway, that’s not at all why I asked you about the threesome thing, so you just put that out of your pretty little head,” he says primly. 

Kent quirks a brow at him. “Why did you ask, then?” 

Bitty freezes like a deer in the headlights. “Um.” 

Kent sends him a narrow-eyed glance. “Bits,” he says slowly, his eyes starting to light up the longer he looks, “did you ask because you wanted _advice?”_

 _“No!”_ Bitty protests. “Of course not!” 

Kent’s smile widens into a delighted grin. “You did!” he says, completely and utterly  _wrong,_  but it’s not like Bitty can correct him by saying he was trying to ask if he’d ever considered  _having_ a threesome. With Bitty and Jack, specifically, because they’d be very up for that, if Kent was up for it, too, of course, no pressure, just asking. 

“I did not!” Bitty denies instead, because there’s no way in hell he can ask that _now,_ not when it turns out people have apparently been asking Kent left and right with no consideration of his actual feelings. 

“Well, well,” Kent says grandly, draping an arm along the back of Bitty’s chair. “Look at Mr. Southern Gentleman here, asking for practical know-how in regards to arranging a ménage à trois.” Kent wiggles his eyebrows suggestively, which Bitty should not find as attractive as he does, damn it. 

“Oh, shut up,” Bitty says, shoving his shoulder in futility, fully aware that he’s blushing bright crimson again. 

Kent elbows him back. “Seriously, though, what did you want to know? Like, the mechanics, or…?” 

“I would have porn if I needed the mechanics, which I do _not,_ thank you very much,” Bitty replies, annoyed.

Kent nods, unfazed. “So you were asking about the lead-up, then.” He pauses, his eyes going wide as he apparently realizes something. “Wait, holy shit, this means _Jack_ is considering a threesome, doesn’t it?” 

Bitty’s mouth drops open. “It doesn’t! We don’t! Stop making these—these completely _unfounded_ assumptions!”

Kent ignores him, shaking his head. “Holy shit, Jack Zimmermann wants a threesome. That’s not something I would ever have predicted,” he says, blushing a bit, too. 

“He doesn’t,” Bitty says bluntly. He and Jack wanted a  _relationship,_ thank you very much, not just a one-time thing. 

Kent squints at him. Something in Bitty’s expression must sway him, because he sits back and nods. “Yeah, okay, I can buy that. Jack was always the monogamous type, after all.” He pauses, then clears his throat. “So, uh, did  _you_ get invited for—” 

“I’m not going to have a threesome with anybody,” Bitty says firmly. “I just asked you because I’m tipsy and curious, and that’s always a bad combination, so can we please, please, _please_ drop this line of conversation?” 

Kent blinks at him. “Uh, okay. Sorry to assume, then, that was a dick move on my part. Especially since, you know, I just had a rant about people making assumptions, so that was doubly dick-ish, so…sorry again?” He smiles at Bitty sheepishly, and Bitty, despite himself, finds himself relenting. 

“You’re forgiven,” he says, trying for stern but aware that he’s probably falling far short. It’s just so  _hard_ to stay mad at Kent when he’s like this, honest and sincere. Bitty can’t be blamed for being a  _little_ soft on him, can he? 

Kent grins at him, back to being happy, and nudges his foot against Bitty’s. “In my defense, though—threesomes? _Really?_ How can you bring that up and expect a bro _not_ to be curious?”

“An error of judgment on my part, clearly,” Bitty says, and Kent laughs and skillfully steers the conversation towards other things. 

Bitty lets him, and calls that attempt a bust. 

 

___ 

 

The next morning, he’s groaning on the ridiculously comfy couch in Kent’s living room where he fell asleep the night before, glaring daggers as Kent putters around in his kitchen, looking fresher than a fucking daisy. 

“How are you not hungover?” Bitty complains, the cats purring on either side of him, clearly trying to offer him comfort in his last hours. “You drank more than I did!” 

“Superior genes, baby,” Kent quips, then hands him a cup of coffee, doctored generously with sugar and cream, just the way Bitty likes it. 

…Bitty decides that, alright, Kent can be forgiven. 

Kent smiles at him like he can read his mind, and Bitty sticks his tongue out in retaliation. 

(Kent takes a picture of that, too, but this one doesn’t get posted to Instagram.) 

 

___ 

 

Later that day, there’s a moment at the airport, when Kent hugs him goodbye and Bitty’s squeezing him hard before stepping back, a moment where he wants to say, _Come with me._

If he were dreaming, he’d have said it, and Kent would have smiled and followed him onto the plane, but this is reality and things don’t work that way, so instead all he can say is, “I’ll text you when I land.” 

“I’ll be waiting,” Kent replies, and Bitty takes those words to heart. 

 

___ 

 

Two weeks later, Bitty gets a phone call from Kent: 

“So, completely coincidentally, I  _just_ got invited to a threesome with this really hot tattoo artist and her boyfriend—” 

“Don’t!” Bitty shouts before he can think it through, causing Jack to look up at him in alarm. 

“Bits, what—?” 

Bitty flaps a hand at him, concentrating on the phone call. 

A startled pause on the other end. “Uh, okay. I wasn’t going to anyway, I’ve got a game tomorrow and everything, but—I don’t know, I just thought it’d be a funny story,” Kent replies. 

“Oh,” Bitty says, mollified, his understandable if unreasonable jealousy dying down. “That is pretty funny, then.” He forces himself to chuckle. 

“Hrmm,” Kent says on the other end, suspicious, and Bitty scrambles to elaborate. 

“It’s only that I didn’t want you to have a threesome _just_ because you thought that I needed advice or something. That’s—that’s not what I want for you. It’s like you said, you’re good for more than hook-ups, and—well, if you really wanted to have that threesome, then go ahead! Have—have fun and be safe! Just—don’t do it for me, that’s all,” Bitty says, looking up at the ceiling in mortification and doubly glad that this is just a phone call and Kent can’t see his face. 

“Bits, what the hell?” Jack blurts out, looking blindsided, and Bitty winces. “A _threesome?"_

 _I’ll tell you later,_ he mouths. 

Kent laughs on the other end, and is Bitty imagining the edge of nervousness in his voice? He’s not, he thinks. “Uh, thanks?” Kent says. “I’m not gonna lie, I did consider it for a second there—” 

Bitty grimaces despite himself. 

“—but, like, I think she wanted to keep it casual? And I just met her, so it’s not like I could ask her and her boyfriend to sign an NDA right there on the fucking dance floor—” 

Bitty barks out a shocked laugh. “What?” 

“I  _know,_ right?” Kent says, delighted. “Anyway, that’s not even the half of it.” 

“Oh, really?” Bitty asks, relaxing, and he smiles at Jack so Jack can calm down, too. 

“Really,” Kent says, his voice a breathless chuckle in his ear. “Get this: I was dancing with this girl, getting my moves on after chatting her up, and she just—sort of leans up and whispers into my ear, ‘Hey, wanna come home with me and my boyfriend? He’s a _big_ soccer fan.’ And I realize—she doesn’t have a fucking clue who I really am, just thinks I’m a random soccer player. I mean, Vegas doesn’t even _have_ a soccer team! What the hell, was this because I mentioned knowing goalies?” 

“Oh, my God,” Bitty says, starting to smile. 

Kent laughs. “I was shook, Bits! Like, what the hell am I supposed to say in that situation?” 

“‘No, thank you,’ because that’s the polite thing to do,” Bitty drawls. 

“Well, that’s great, because that’s pretty much exactly what I did—I said, thanks, but I’m not interested, and then I peeled her off of me and hightailed it out of there. And then, I don’t know, I thought of telling you, because what are the literal odds of me getting asked to a threesome right after we talked about it?” 

“Probably high, sugar, considering that you _do_ live in Vegas, and you’ve admitted that you have the face of a self-proclaimed fuckboy,” Bitty says dryly, and Kent laughs again, just like Bitty knew he would. Bitty ignores the twisting in his chest at the sound, as well as the way his whole body goes warm to realize that Kent’s first instinct was to call him and tell him the story. 

“Yeah, well, all part of a day in the life, I guess,” Kent says. He sighs a little. “Anyway, I gotta get going, but thanks for listening.” 

“No problem, hon,” Bitty says. “You were right, it  _was_ a funny story.” 

“Ha, I knew it,” Kent says, smug, and Bitty can just about picture his grin. They say their goodbyes, Bitty promising to pass on Kent’s well wishes to Jack, and then they hang up. 

“Bits,” Jack immediately says, “what was all that about? A  _threesome?_ With who? I didn’t even know Kent was dating anybody.” He’s frowning, arms crossed and brows furrowed intently. 

Bitty winces. “Well, it’s kind of a long story,” he hedges. 

Jack looks at him. “Explain,” he demands, terse. 

So. Well. Bitty does. 

“Fucking Christ,” Jack groans, laying his head down on the coffee table. “Of course he’d take it that way. Why did I expect any different. Of course he’d be this fucking oblivious.” 

“That’s not really his fault though, is it?” Bitty says, compelled to defend Kent. “Honestly, why would he assume I was asking to see if he’d be interested in having one with us?” 

“Because who else would we ask!” Jack shouts. 

“I don’t know, some nice stranger we met?” 

Jack grunts. 

“Alright, when you put it that way, it sounds implausible,” Bitty caves. He perks up. “But look at the bright side! At least Kent _isn’t_ going to have a threesome with somebody else.” 

“For now,” Jack grumbles. 

Bitty goes over to rub his shoulders. “Honey, please don’t worry about this. We’ll ask Kent before anything like that happens,” he reassures him. 

Jack sighs. “No, you’re right. We just—we’ll get through to him before that.” 

Bitty nods. “Exactly!” 

 

___ 

 

…and then they didn’t. 

 

___ 

 

It’s not like Bitty and Jack don’t _try_ —they flirt, they drop hints, they do everything but take out a billboard, it feels like. It’s just that Kent is particularly dense, and takes most of their overtures as friendship, brushes off all of their hints at something more, and suspiciously gets busy every time Jack or Bitty try and pin him down. 

“I think we’ve gotta do it in person,” Bitty says, wild-eyed. “Just—lay one on him. That’d work, right? He can’t pretend that it’s just chirpin’ him then, can he?” 

“Euh,” Jack says, wincing. 

Bitty doesn’t notice, too busy looking at his calendar with a fervency previously reserved for his vlog or his baking. “I think you should be the one to do it,” he says decisively. “What about when you play him in Vegas?” 

Jack freezes. “Eh?” 

Bitty grins, already making plans. He begins, “It’ll be perfect—” 

 

___ 

 

—which leads Jack here. In Vegas. Sitting in Parse’s living room. Doing his best not to put his hands in his pockets to keep from fiddling with everything, either of which is a total giveaway of how uncomfortable he is. 

Jack is…incredibly nervous, which isn’t a feeling he really associates with Parse anymore. He’s not sure he likes it, the falling back into old habits, the return of the uncertainty that characterized so much of his early relationship with Parse, where he spent half of his time exhilarated at finding someone so incredibly in-sync with him, and the other half despairing that Parse would never, not in a million years, actually _return_ his feelings. 

But, well. They’ve tried asking Parse out already, and he and Bitty managed to screw it up, and Bitty’s tried asking by himself once, and _that_ also ended in disaster, and all of their hints so far have been ignored with the stubbornness of a moose, so—

—according to Bitty, the only course left to them is for Jack to try and broach the subject with Parse. By himself. All on his own. No back-up beyond Bitty waiting on speed-dial. 

Jack thinks this is an incredibly bad idea, but his every protest was shot down with ruthless single-mindedness, Bitty’s eyes lit with intense fervency as he bulldozed over all of Jack’s objections. 

“Y’all are on the same wavelength—there’s no way he’ll be able to pass it off as anything other than what it is, not if it comes from you,” Bitty insists. 

“That only applies to hockey,” Jack protests weakly. 

Bitty shoots him a look. “Honey, if I try it again, I guarantee that Kent’ll only think we’re interested in somebody _else._ I’d rather not herd him into some stranger’s bed just because he wants to give us helpful advice on how to set up a threesome.” 

Jack blanches. That would be—bad, yes. 

Euh, he _really_ doesn’t like the return of all this jealousy, either. It was a lot easier to watch Parse go on dates with other people when he pretended that all his feelings for him were just physical attraction, mixed in with mild annoyance that Parse getting a significant other would then minimize the time he’d spend with Jack. 

…alright, in hindsight, he should’ve realized his own feelings sooner, considering how startlingly similar they were to his high school self’s, but in his defense— 

—well, he doesn’t really have a defense, other than ‘feelings are difficult’ and ‘I didn’t want to think about it.’ 

Part of him  _still_ doesn’t want to think about it, but the idea’s there now: 

He could have it all. He could have Bitty _and_ Parse. It’s going to take a whole lot of denial to pretend that he doesn’t want it _now._

Which leads him here, to Parse’s living room, trying to figure out how to ask him to be his and Bitty’s joint boyfriend. 

 _Maybe I should just kiss him,_ the panicked corner of his brain suggests.  _That worked last time._  

 _Oh, wonderful, steal moves out of your awkward seventeen-year-old self’s playbook. Why don’t we also spill half a slushie in his lap, complete the trip down memory lane? Parse would_ love _that,_ the rest of him sarcastically replies.

“Hey, man, you okay?”

Jack snaps his head up to see Parse peering at him in worry. “I’m fine,” he says automatically. 

Parse’s mouth pinches for half a second before he smoothens his expression out into a smirk. “Yeah, dude, sure. Don’t know why I’m even bothering to check on you, considering that you’ve gotta be busy getting ready for your ass-kicking tonight. My boys and I are gonna fucking _demolish_ you guys.” 

Jack snorts, shoulders easing. “Please, it’s going to be the other way around, and you know it,” he says, falling into their usual banter, easy as breathing. 

“I don’t know jack-shit, haven’t you heard?” Parse tosses back, opening his eyes ridiculously wide. “I’m a dumb blond jock, I don’t have two brain cells to rub together.” 

Jack barks a laugh despite himself, and Parse smiles back, satisfied. 

 _Oh,_ Jack suddenly realizes.  _Oh, you did that on purpose._  

The part of him that thinks, _Just kiss him already,_ gets suspiciously louder. 

He ignores it. “So,” he says instead, clearing his throat. “Nap?” 

Kent nods, acquiescing. “Nap time, bro,” he agrees. He walks down the hall, gesturing for Jack to follow, and stops at one of the doors and flings it open, revealing the uncluttered, navy-blue accented guestroom that Jack stayed in last time. “All yours, Jack,” Kent says. 

Jack nods, settles his duffel bag down, and watches Kent disappear into the room across the hall, his door beginning to swing shut— 

“Parse?” Jack calls out. 

The door pauses, Kent’s head poking out. “Mm?” 

“Ah—never mind, I just—I thought maybe—” Jack flounders, unsure of how to put his thoughts into words: 

 _I_ _wanna_ _nap with you,_ he imagines himself saying, imagines how Kent would smile, the sweetest of throwbacks to the old days, how Jack could crawl into the bed behind him and pull him to his chest, Kent’s ankle hooking neatly around his, their bodies fitting together with the ease of muscle memory long burned into their minds. 

There was hardly ever a home game in Rimouski that didn’t start with them tangled up together in one of their billet houses’ beds, sleeping the stress off before they’d head to the rink in Jack’s truck, Kent riding shotgun and singing along to the radio with the windows down. 

It’s a good memory, one of his best memories for all that there’s so many different versions of it, and Jack doesn’t know how to tell Kent that he wants it back, that he’s ready to take him up on his offer, that he can give him what he wants now. 

Kent just looks at him, green eyes piercing, and swings the door open. “This okay?” he asks, and it’s not  _exactly_ what Jack wanted, but it’s a step in the right direction. 

Jack nods, grateful. “Yes,” he says. And, “Thank you.” 

Kent smiles at him, soft and fond, and says, “Welcome, you dweeb.” 

Jack laughs, and Kent smiles wider, and after Jack settles into his bed, he can see Kent sprawled out in the room across from him, doing the same. 

He’s not close enough to touch, no, but Jack thinks he can get them there by the end of this trip, and that’s better than what he had before. 

Jack closes his eyes and falls asleep with a smile. 

 

___ 

 

Sadly for the Falcs, Parse’s prediction proves somewhat true, and if they didn’t exactly get their asses kicked, it’s definitely not a game to write home about, either. 

“We’ll get them next time,” he consoles Poots in the locker room. 

“That’s what you said _last_ time,” Poots replies mutinously.

Jack frowns, lays a heavier hand on Poots’ shoulder. “We’ve had a tough season,” he says, and this is true—they’ve had a slew of injuries, a couple of terrible calls, and shaky morale, not quite able to plow through a setback or a loss and regain their footing in quite the same way that they’ve done in the past. 

It’s fine, though. The team is still solid, and even if it looks more and more likely that they’re going to have to fight it out for the wild card slot, Jack still thinks they can turn it around in time. And even if they don’t, well— 

It’s not that it wouldn’t _hurt—_ Jack knows himself well enough that a loss is never going to be just a loss to him, not in the moment—but he’s more sure of himself in a way that means he won’t end up placing all the blame for it on his own shoulders. 

Well. With one or two pointed reminders from both himself and the people he cares about, and he’s been better about listening to them, too. 

Jack exits the dressing room and sees one of those people waiting for him, tie crisp, suit jacket slung over one shoulder, broad shoulders leaning against the wall as he scrolls through his endless social media feed. 

“Parse,” Jack calls out, not exactly surprised to see him there, but pleased nevertheless. 

 _(Kenny,_ he thinks in the quiet of his own mind. Part of him is always going to think of Parse that way, and, unlike five years ago, he wouldn’t excise that part now if he could.) 

“Hey, Jack,” Parse says, flashing him a grin. “You ready to take me out for dinner? Fairsie’s fairsies, and loser’s gotta pay.” He pats his ridiculous abs. “Worked up an appetite, you know.” 

Jack snorts. “Doing what? You spent half the game in the sin bin.” 

“Half the—it was _barely four minutes,”_ Kent protests, shoving at Jack, and Jack shoves back and thinks to himself,  _This is the way it should always be._  

 

___ 

 

“So, what’ve you been up to?” Parse asks through a mouthful of steak. They’re at a secluded corner table of an upscale restaurant that Jack didn’t even know was here—it’s understated, elegant, quiet, miles away from the raucous, crowded spectacle of the T-Mobile Arena. Not exactly Parse’s speed, but it’s tailor-made for Jack. 

Jack twelve years ago, ten years ago, maybe even as recently as four years ago wouldn’t have noticed, but Jack now? 

Now, Jack knows that Parse chose this place for  _him._

“Nothing much,” Jack says, eating a piece of his own steak and swallowing before he speaks again. “You know, it’s just the usual. Been trying out some new lines, working on developing some of the wingers they brought up—Frosty’s been coming along well—what?” Jack demands, catching the end of Parse’s snigger. 

“Nothing, just—Frosty? Which one of your guys is that? Did you name him to match Snow?” 

“…no.” 

“Then why Frosty?” Parse asks, leaning his chin against the heel of his hand, just a little different from the way Bitty does it. Bitty always leans it against the back of his hand, making him look thoughtful and sincere. The way Parse does it makes him look like a bored, distracted asshole, but even Jack can admit that that’s a good look on him. 

“…it’s because it’s Kellogg,” Jack admits. 

Parse stares at him for a second before bursting into laughter. “Nooooo,” he says, pounding a fist against the table as he shakes his head. “You guys fucking did  _not—”_

“Personally, I was in favor of Logger, but I was overruled,” Jack replies. Not a surprise, since this was also the team that named Tater and Poots, but still. It was the principle of the thing. 

“So you named the poor kid after fucking _Frosted Flakes?_ Fucking _cereal?”_ Parse is guffawing so hard he’s tearing up. “You sick, sick bastards.” 

“I will neither confirm nor deny,” Jack says, feeling a smile pull at the corners of his mouth. 

After Parse calms down some, he swipes at his eyes, still grinning. “Well, I’ll admit it’s not as bad as Knight’s nickname, but I give negative points for making him sound like a children’s Christmas song.” 

“You have to admit that the process by which they arrived at it is both original and unique,” Jack argues, just to rile him up. 

It works like a charm. Parse rolls his eyes, gesturing at Jack with his steak knife. “I admit nothing. Frosty is a _heinous_ name. Now, your favorite pair of D-men back in college, Ransom and Holster— _they_  were creative.  _That’s_  how you do hockey nicknames.” 

“Jeff Troy’s nickname is Swoops because he tripped over his own damn skates in his second game in the league,” Jack says incredulously. 

“Ah, yes,” Parse says, misty-eyed. “One fell swoop—what a masterpiece. I’m still proud of that, you know.” 

Jack snorts and shakes his head. 

Parse shrugs before switching topics. “How’re they doing, by the way?” 

Jack blinks, confused. “Who?” 

“Ransom and Holster. I know Shitty’s spending some time in Texas for an immigration case—” 

“How do you know that?” Jack asks, surprised. 

Parse wrinkles his nose. “Bitty told me,” he answers, the _you idiot_ not so much implied as telepathically tacked on by Parse’s facial expression alone. “But I had to hang up before he started talking about those two—the story about Chowder’s prank in Toronto took too long—” 

“Ah, he has a bit of a soft spot for Chowder,” Jack explains. 

“—everybody and their mother knows Bits would help the guy bury a body, Jack, that’s hardly gonna make the six o’clock news,” Parse retorts without missing a beat, “and, anyway, as I was _saying,_ I had to go before he could catch me up on everyone.” He looks expectantly at Jack. 

“Ah. Right. Well,” Jack says, floundering a little—he hadn’t known Parse took such an interest in his Samwell crew, but he _had_ been pretty friendly at the last couple of group parties. “I guess the biggest news is that they’re planning on proposing to Lardo.”

Parse chokes on his wine. “I’m sorry, _what?_ Did you just say that they’re going to propose to their ex-manager? At the _same time?”_

“Uh, yes,” Jack answers, confused and honestly a little worried. Did Parse have something against triads, or was is the ex-manager thing? Jack hopes it’s just the latter. 

Parse stares at him, mouth agape. “So, what, she’s supposed to decide then and there which one she’s supposed to marry? Just—solve the love triangle by joint proposals, that’s—are they fucking serious, they can’t put her on the spot like that! Are either of them even dating her right now? I mean, this is such bull— 

Jack lowers his utensils. “Parse,” he says carefully, “all three of them are dating each other.” 

Parse stops mid-rant and shuts his mouth with a click. “Oh.” 

Jack tries and fails to suppress his smile. “Yeah. ‘Oh.’ There’s no love triangle involved, just good old-fashioned polyamory.” 

“Oh,” Parse repeats. “That’s—that’s nice.” He pauses. “There are federal laws against bigamy, though, aren’t there?” 

Jack raises a brow. “And what would you know about U.S. marriage laws?” 

Parse snorts. “I know more than you, that’s for damn sure. Vegas, remember? I’ve had to bail out a rookie or two in my time.” 

“Ah, yes, of course,” Jack says, rolling his eyes. Only on the Aces, honestly. “Anyway, the wedding is going to be a friends-and-family affair, so they’re not going to register it with the government, but they’re planning on flipping a coin and having two of them formally marry later on to get the tax benefits.” 

Parse nods. “Smart move.” 

Jack thinks of Ransom and Holster, of the pictures of various rings they’d spammed the secret group chat with, of how Bitty’s already been roped in to be their cameraman on the designated date, of how they keep looking at Lardo lately, that identical expression of nervousness and anticipation and hope all balled up together, like she’s walking around with their entire future wrapped around her pinky and she doesn’t even know it. 

Parse fiddles with his fork, drawing Jack’s attention to how the ambient lamplight turns him into a patchwork of gilded gold and softly-edged shadows. Jack wishes desperately that he had a camera on him, feels that sharp ache that had driven him to take picture after of picture of Parse back when they were teenagers. 

Anything to capture those quickly passing moments. Anything to prove that they were real. 

“Hey,” Jack asks, thinking of Parse then, drinking in the sight of him now, imagining having him again in the future, “have you ever—you know. Considered it?” 

“Considered what, marriage? Yeah, of course I have,” Parse answers casually. “Gonna find myself somebody awesome, settle down here until I retire, and then move wherever they wanna go. Raise a few rugrats, spoil ‘em rotten, get a few more cats, maybe a dog if the spouse insists—” 

“No,” Jack interrupts. “I mean, yes, marriage, but—I was talking about Lardo and Holster and Ransom, actually.” 

Parse’s left brow wings upward. “You mean, would I consider marrying them?” 

“No!” Jack says, aghast at the turn this conversation has taken. “I meant, would you ever want—actually, have you ever considered if you would be okay with, you know, uh—” 

“Polyamory?” Parse cuts in, saving Jack from his own floundering. 

Jack beams at him in sudden relief. “Yes! Yes, that.” 

Parse wrinkles his nose. “Huh. Can’t say that I have.” He shrugs and continues eating, unaware of how drastically he’s thrown Jack’s plans off-balance. 

“You—you haven’t?” Jack says blankly. He doesn’t know why he’s so surprised. It’s a perfectly reasonable answer to a relatively unusual question, and Parse didn’t even seem disgusted when he asked, so that’s a good thing overall, right? 

 _Wrong!_ shrieks Jack’s anxiety.

“Why not?” he asks out loud. 

Parse leans back in his chair and considers the ceiling. “If you ever tell anyone what I’m about to tell you, I’m flying across the country and breaking into your apartment and taking just  _one_ of your spoons so you won’t have matching sets anymore,” he says. 

Jack blanches. “You wouldn’t,” he replies, automatic. 

“If you tell anyone, I absolutely fucking will, so promise me you won’t.” Parse meets his gaze, deadly serious, and Jack nods, willing to give him what he wants. 

Parse blows out a breath. “Okay, so, like—I suck at dating,” he says all in a rush. “No, seriously, shut up and hear me out—no matter what I do, I can’t seem to keep a relationship going beyond two months, tops. And believe me, I’ve _tried,_  okay? I’m pretty good at picking up, and scheduling regular casual hook-ups, but, like, introduce feelings? Or attempt to take things to the next level?” He gestures frenetically. “Suddenly everything fucking falls apart—I’m too awkward, or I’m too smooth. I’m not sincere enough, or I’m way too fucking honest. I’m either too clingy, or I put up too many walls. And, obviously, I never spend enough time with them, but I’m weirdly grateful for that last reason because at least  _that_ one’s consistent. I dunno, man, no matter what I do, it never seems to work.” Parse scrubs his hands over his face and sighs explosively, sitting back in his seat. “So, yeah. That’s reason number one for never considering polyamory. In order to, like, expand my relationships, I kinda have to be able to keep at least _one_ going, and I can’t even manage that, so juggling several seems beyond my skillset. Sorry to disappoint.”

Jack stares, appalled. “Parse—” 

“I know, I know,” he groans. “It’s pathetic, you don’t have to tell me that, I hear enough about it from Carrie,” he complains, referencing his younger sister. 

“You’re not bad at dating,” Jack protests. “You’re—anybody would be lucky to have you.” 

Parse rolls his eyes, clearly disbelieving. “Sure, dude, thanks,” he says, brushing him off. “Anyway, let’s just—talk about something else.” 

“Parse—” 

Parse clicks his tongue. “Bro, why do you even want to know?” he asks, annoyed, before his eyes widen in shock. “Oh, shit, is this because of the—” He cuts himself off, glancing around before leaning forward and continuing in a whisper “—the threesome thing? Fuck, I knew Bits was fucking lying to me—” 

 _“No,”_ Jack replies, horrified. “Bits and I don’t want—one of those.” 

“Okaaaay,” Parse says, clearly disbelieving. “You want an open relationship-type deal, then? The polyamory thing?” 

“No,” Jack repeats, emphatic. He pauses. “Those are two different things anyway,” he mutters. 

Parse stares at him, mouth twitching in a way that Jack _knows_ means that he’s trying not to laugh at him, the absolute _asshole._ “Jack,” he says, low-voiced and amused, “did you do research on this shit?” 

Jack grimaces. 

“You did!” Parse crows. “That’s fucking adorable, oh, my God—” 

“Oh, fuck you,” Jack snaps, stung. 

“Oh, come on, Jack, this is great,” Parse says, smiling widely. He shakes his head. “Holy fuck, how cute. Who’s the lucky guy, anyway? I bet it’s another blonde, you’re so fucking predictable—” 

 _It’s you, you moron,_ Jack wants to say, but he can’t. He can’t. He’s too hurt and angry and disappointed to handle this conversation with anywhere _near_ the grace and tact he needs, so he just shakes his head and pushes away from the table, standing. “I’m leaving,” he says, terse, and tosses a few hundreds on the table to cover his bill, and walks away without looking back, ignoring Parse’s calls after him. 

He makes it half a mile away before he realizes he doesn’t have a clue where he is or where he’s going, and power-walks another fifty feet before he realizes he’s going to have to go back to Parse’s house anyway because he left all his luggage there. 

“Fuck,” he says eloquently. 

He pulls out his phone to check his GPS, and sees that he has five missed calls from Parse and one new text from Bits. 

 _So,_ the text reads,  _how’d it_ _go_ _? <3_ 

Jack bites down on his lip, miserable.  _Not so great,_ he types out, then hits send before he can second-guess himself. Bits is probably asleep by now, anyway, or at least he ought to be. They can debrief about all the ways he fucked this night up tomorrow. 

He’s shoving his phone back in his pocket when he hears annoyed shouts coming from behind him. Turning around to see what all the commotion’s about, he sees— 

“Kenny,” he says, shocked, rooted to the spot as Parse catches sight of him and puts on a burst of speed, pumping his arms and seriously sprinting. “What’re you doing here—” 

Parse goes right up to him and shoves him in the chest. “Oh, you fucking asshole,” he rages, smacking Jack with every word, uncaring of the stares they’re drawing, “fuck you and your ridiculously long legs—if we were in skates, I would’ve left you in my fucking _dust_ —you goddamn fucker, how _dare_ you make me run in these fucking loafers, oh, my God—” He takes a break from hitting Jack to bend over and place his hands on his knees, breathing hard. He shoots Jack a baleful glare from beneath ash-blond lashes. “I just played a game tonight and then ate my weight in steak, so I don’t wanna hear a single fucking word about my stamina—we are, like, a _mile_ away from the restaurant, and you _know_ I fucking hate running—I cannot _believe_ the things I do for you, you gigantic fucking  _dick—”_

“Kenny,” Jack repeats, still caught on the fact that he’s  _here._ “You came after me.” 

Parse stares at him like he’s grown three more heads and has somehow still not managed to use any of them. “Well, duh,” he replies, as if that was the only obvious choice. “I’m always gonna come after you, you idiot.” 

“Oh,” Jack says, feeling winded. 

Parse takes a look at his face and sighs. “Come on,” he says, clapping a hand on Jack’s shoulder. “We’re going back to my place.” He pauses. “And you are totally paying for the Lyft, by the way.” 

“Uh, sure,” Jack says, then, curious, asks, “Why not Uber?” 

“Carrie’s idiot boyfriend works for them,” Parse replies, as if that explains everything.

“Gotcha,” Jack says, nodding, because it’s Parse, so to him it does. “Makes sense.” 

They look at each other and burst into laughter. 

 

___ 

 

“I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, you know.” 

Jack looks up from where he’s taking off his shoes to find Parse staring down at him, his eyes an inscrutable dark hazel. “Yeah?” he says, straightening. 

Parse nods. “Yeah. I just—I wanted to know more about it, that’s all. I mean, I know I’m not your best friend anymore, but I still wanna—” 

“Kenny,” Jack interrupts, grabbing at his shoulder and pulling him into a hug. Parse wraps his arms around his waist and hugs him back, letting out a shaky exhale that tears Jack’s heart to pieces. “Kenny, that’s not even _close_ to true, you know that I—that I—you’re one of my _best_ friends, Kenny,” Jack says fiercely, pressing a hard kiss to his temple. “Always. I’m sorry that that wasn’t true for a while, but—but _now—”_

“Yeah,” Parse repeats, sounding watery in a way that explains why he’s keeping his face tucked against Jack’s shoulder. “I’m—okay.” He laughs. “I swear I’m okay, just give me a minute, I just—” He lets out another shuddering breath. “This is always what I wanted back the most, you know. Just—being friends with you again. I could leave everything else, but I always wanted us to be on the same team. Just—just that, Zimms,” he says. “Just that.” 

Jack closes his eyes and holds him tighter, his heart aching. “You’ve got that, bud,” he promises, tucking away all the extra words that want to spill out, words of love and devotion, words like, _I missed you, come back, tell me it’s not too late, tell me you’re still mine._  

Now isn’t the time for that. 

“Okay,” Parse says. “Okay.” 

They stay that way for a while. 

 

___ 

 

“We aren’t looking for anyone else, you know,” Jack clarifies carefully the next morning while they’re eating breakfast. Purrs is looking at him beseechingly, and Jack knows he’s going to hand over a sausage, waiting to do it until Parse’s back is turned. “Bittle and I. We don’t—we don’t want a threesome or anything, and I don’t want to start anything with a stranger.” 

 _I only want to start something with_ you, he doesn’t say. The timing isn’t right, not after last night, not after Parse’s heart-rendingly vulnerable confession, but he’s hopeful that they’ll get there soon. 

Parse nods. “Cool, cool. Just—you know I’m all ears for anything, right?” he says, looking at Jack earnestly. “Whatever you need—whatever Bits needs—I’m always happy to lend a hand.” 

“Yeah, Parse,” Jack says, smiling back carefully. “We know.” 

 

___ 

 

“Well?” Bits asks him when he calls him at the airport, sounding like he’s bouncing on his feet in excitement. 

“Ah,” Jack says. “Well.” 

“Oh,” Bitty says, voice falling flat with disappointment, knowing instantly what Jack means. He sighs. “Back to the drawing board, then?” 

Jack sighs, too. “Yeah.” 

“This boy,” Bitty says, tutting, but his tone is impossibly fond. 

“Yeah,” Jack repeats, knowing he sounds the same. “What an idiot.” 

He and Bitty share a laugh, and Jack’s breathing easy when they hang up. 

It’s okay; there’s nothing to worry about. They’ve got time. 

 

___ 

 

…except then another month passes, and they still make no progress. 

Yeah. Jack honestly didn’t see that coming, either. 

“What do we have to  _do?”_  Bitty moans. “Hire a skywriter? Take an ad out at the T-Mobile Arena? Not even  _Tango_ was this oblivious, and Tango wouldn’t know a clue if it smacked him in the face!” 

Jack shrugs, dejected. “Maybe we should just…take him out on a date?” he suggests. “Since trying to ask him on one isn’t working.” 

“When? In summer? It’s February!” Bitty says, waving his arms. 

“No, I mean—we could take him to dinner next week. He’s got that game in Boston, right?” 

Bitty pauses, tilting his head to the side. “That could work,” he agrees. He fishes his phone out of his pocket and calls someone: “Hannah! It’s Eric! I was wondering if you could get me a reservation for Thursday next week—” 

 

___ 

 

“Congratulations, honey!” Bitty says, beaming at Kent. “You played great tonight!” 

“Thanks,” Kent says with a grin, accepting a quick hug from Bitty and an arm slung around his shoulders from Jack. “It’s good to see you guys. We still on for dinner?” 

“Of course, sweetheart,” Bitty says, looping an arm around his. “Now, let’s just—” 

“Ah, hang tight for a sec,” Parse says, pulling back. “Lemme go get the guys.” 

“Right, right—wait, what?” Bitty says, exchanging an alarmed look with Jack. 

“What guys?” Jack asks, frowning. 

Unfortunately, Kent’s already down the hall and out of sight, reappearing a few seconds later with three of the Aces in tow, a wide grin on his face. 

“Oh, no, he did _not,”_ Bitty says, outraged. 

“He did,” Jack says, already resigned. “He definitely did.” 

Bitty manages to resist the urge to cover his face with his hands and shriek like a pterodactyl, but only just. 

 

___ 

 

“Hi,” Bitty greets the host through a fake smile, “I am  _so_ sorry for the imposition, but is the Blue Room open tonight? We had a change in plans.” 

The server takes in the bevy of hockey players behind him with wide eyes. “Uh, yes, sir,” he replies. “Right this way, please.” 

“Thank you _so_ much,” Bitty says sweetly. “We  _truly_ appreciate such _consideration.”_

“Um, yes,” he replies, confused. “Of course, sir.” 

From behind him, Bitty hears Kent whisper to Jack, “Okay, is it just me, or is Bits angry or something?” 

Bitty keeps on smiling.

 

___ 

 

“Okay, is it just me, or are we, like, crashing their date?” Scrappy asks Swoops in a quiet aside, gesturing at the trio in front of them, Parse sandwiched neatly between Zimmermann and Bittle as they walk down the pavement. 

“Can’t be—Parser has more game than that,” Gopher says absent-mindedly, eyeing a nearby taco truck with interest, despite just having eaten. “Why would he bring us along for a date?” 

Scrappy rolls his eyes. “Since when does Parse have any fucking game around somebody he actually  _likes?”_

“He doesn’t,” Gopher replies. “Obviously. So—ohhhh. Oh. You think he finally caught on to his feelings for Zimmermann and his boyfriend, then?” 

“Don’t think so, not if he invited us out with them,” Scrappy says, frowning. 

“…he doesn’t know that this was supposed to be a date, does he?” Swoops says. 

The three of them watch their friend a little while longer. 

“Yeah, no, absolutely no clue,” Gopher declares cheerfully.

Scrappy and Swoops groan simultaneously. 

 

___ 

 

“Well, look on the bright side,” Jack tells Bitty later that night when they’re back at home, sans Kent, “at least he’s doing great in hockey.” 

Bitty flips him the middle finger. 

 

___ 

 

“Alright,” Bitty says a few weeks later, after successfully wrangling an agreement from Kent to visit him in Providence a few days after his birthday. “I’ve successfully invited him out, just us two, absolutely  _nobody else,_ and if he shows up with any teammates, I’m just going to murder them. There.” He nods decisively. 

Jack flashes him a thumbs up sign. 

 

___ 

 

When Bitty enters the restaurant, the maître’d gives him a polite, welcoming smile. “Good evening!” she says. “How may I help you?” 

“Ah, I have a reservation under Eric Bittle,” he says, glancing past the decorative slats separating the foyer from the dining space, hoping to catch a glimpse of wayward blond curls. 

The maître’d frowns. “I’m sorry, sir, that reservation is for two only,” she explains, “and both parties have already arrived.” 

Bitty abruptly stops trying to look for Kent. “I’m sorry, what?” he says, flat. 

 

___ 

 

When Bitty gets to the window-side table _he_ reserved, Kent is already sitting there, grinning widely at a handsome stranger. 

“Excuse me,” Bitty says frostily as he approaches, “but you’re in my seat.” 

Kent and the stranger look up at him, the latter with surprise, the former with—relief? 

“Bits!” Kent says, getting up to give him a half-hug. “It’s good to see you.” 

Bitty ignores him, continuing to glare at the stranger. “Hi, hon, I’m sorry I’m late. Who is this?” 

Kent blinks. “Uh—you two don’t know each other?” 

“No, we don’t,” Bitty says evenly. He smiles at the interloper. “Hi, I’m Eric, Kent’s friend. Who might you be?” 

Both Kent and the stranger do a double-take. “Oh, God,” the stranger says, blushing.  _“You’re_ Eric. I mean, you’re a different Eric. I mean,  _you’re_ not the Eric Jennifer is setting me up with,” he finishes, looking at Kent with dawning horror. 

“Holy fuck, dude, I really am not,” Kent says, laughing.

“God, we switched blind dates,” the stranger says, groaning, putting his face in his hands. “Please shoot me now.” 

“Aww, but that would be such a shame,” Kent says, that flirty edge still in his voice, and Bitty sees red. 

“Well, as lovely as this meet-cute has been, Kent is _not_ actually on a blind date—” 

“He’s not?” the stranger says, confused. 

“—he’s here to catch up with _me,_ and over there at that table in the middle with the red rose on his lapel is poor Eric Masterson, your  _actual_ blind date who’s spent the last twenty minutes thinking he’s been stood up.”

A round of flustered apologies later, and Bitty and Kent are finally alone. 

“Oh, thank God you got here when you did,” Kent says, dropping his smile. “That guy and I had absolutely  _nothing_ in common, Bits, it was  _terrible—”_

“Hon,” Bitty demands, staring incredulously at Kent, “what the hell is wrong with you? Are you seriously this oblivious, or are you just pulling my leg?” 

Kent frowns. “Wait, what?” 

Bitty jabs a thumb over his shoulder. “Why did you think I was setting you up on a blind date?” he says through gritted teeth. “I invited you here because I wanted to see you and nobody else.” 

“…okay, in hindsight that was obvious, but in my defense everybody’s been trying to give me dating advice, or set me up, so—” 

“Believe me, Kent Parson, you would know if I was trying to set you up with somebody else,” Bitty says frostily. 

They sit there in silence while Bitty stares at the menu. 

Finally, Kent speaks again, quiet-voiced. “Sorry.” 

“For what?” 

“For assuming, I guess.” Kent shrugs. “I know you aren’t the kind of person to just spring that on a guy without permission, but—I don’t know, this is obviously a first date kinda place. I just assumed…” 

Bitty sighs. “Kent, that is _exactly_ why I brought you here,” he says, laying his cards on the table. “I wanted—” 

“Oh! Oh, I get it,” Kent interrupts, his eyes lighting up. 

Bitty freezes, his heartrate speeding up. “You—you do?” he asks blankly. 

“Yes! You’re trying to pick a restaurant for your anniversary with Jack,” Kent says triumphantly.

Bitty stares. “What?”

Kent just grins at him, practically vibrating with excitement. “It’s coming up, right? Right? Jack just mentioned it the other day, the dork. And, like, I’m like your hockey player test subject, right?” He drops his eyes to his menu and begins perusing. “Okay, so Jack can’t eat half the things on this, but—” 

“Why do I even bother?” Bitty says, sagging in his seat. 

“Don’t worry, Bits, I see a couple of items even Mr. Picky-as-All-Get-Out can eat, so lemme just—” He turns and calls a server over. “Sir—sir, can we get some help here?” 

Bitty puts down his menu and stares at his white-knuckled hands. 

 

___ 

 

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Bitty tells Jack when his boyfriend gets home a few days later. 

Jack looks at him, alarmed. “Bits—” 

“He doesn’t think of me that way,” Bitty says, resigned. “I should just accept it and move on.” 

He turns and walks back to their room, shutting the door behind him.

 

___

 

“Okay,” Parse says without preamble, “please tell me what the hell I did wrong. I already apologized for the blind date thing, so what gives?” 

“Parse—” 

“And don’t say it’s nothing! Bitty’s acting just like he did in August, and that took fucking months to resolve, with no help from you, I might add, so can you just tell me how I fucked up so I can grovel properly and promise to never do it again?” 

“Parse—” 

“’Cause I promise I won’t do it again, okay? Swear to God, Jack, whatever it is, I’ll do better, just—just fucking _tell_ me—” 

“Parse!” 

“What! Jesus, I’m trying to figure out what I did to piss off your boyfriend, can you cut me a fucking break?” Parse shouts at him. 

“He’s not pissed off,” Jack says. “He’s just—sad.” 

Parse is silent for a moment. Then, “Oh, shit.  _Shit._  I made him  _sad?”_  

“Not…exactly,” Jack hedges. “More like…he realized something that made him sad.” 

“What? What did he realize? Can I help? Is it _me?_ Is it something else? Oh, God, he’s not sick or anything, is he—?” Parse says, clearly panicking. 

“No, Parse, it’s just—he likes you so much, you know,” Jack says, then freezes when Parse gasps. 

 _Shit,_ he thinks. _I wasn’t supposed to say that._

“I wasn’t supposed to say that,” he says. 

Parse ignores him. “He likes me?” Parse says instead. 

“No, that’s—well, yes, actually, but—” 

“He’s not mad at me?” Parse asks, but Jack isn’t listening, too intent on making his point. 

“ —we  _both_ like you, is what I wanted to say—” 

“Oh,” Parse interrupts, and Jack cuts himself off, waiting with bated breath. Then he says, “I like you guys, too, you know.” 

The air in Jack’s lungs leaves him in a giddy whoosh. “You do?” 

“Yeah, Jack, of course I do,” Parse says. “You guys are some of my closest friends—” 

Jack’s heart drops to his feet, and he frantically corrects, “Kenny, no—that’s not what I meant—” 

“Wait, we’re  _not_ friends?” Parse demands. “I thought you just said that Bitty’s fine with me!”

“That’s not—I mean, of course he is—” 

“He  _is_ mad at me, isn’t he?” Parse says, accusing. 

Jack just groans. “Forget it,” he says, and he hangs up. 

 

___ 

 

Two thousand miles away in Vegas, Kent Parson looks blankly at his phone. “What the fuck?” he says, annoyed. “How the hell is that supposed to help me?” 

Both of his cats just stare at him judgmentally, so there’s no aid from that quarter, either. 

 

___ 

 

Jack and Bitty eventually start talking to him again, apologies offered and accepted on all sides, but it’s not quite the same as before. There’s a bit more distance, more hesitation than Kent’s gotten used to these past months, and he doesn’t like it at all. 

Which is stupid, but there you have it. 

“I don’t get it,” he complains to Carrie. “I was happy with this amount of talking before! We basically just went back to how we used to be, and _that’s_ a hell of a lot better than the radio silence I used to get, so what the hell is wrong with me? It’s fucking play-offs, of course Jack and Bitty are going to be busy. Why can’t I fucking handle that?”

“You absolute moron,” Carrie says. “It’s because you _like_ them that you want to talk to them more.”

Kent rolls his eyes safely on the other side of the country. This is a phone call anyway, Carrie can’t call him out on it. “I know that, Carrie,” he says patiently. “That’s not the problem.” 

“No, you idiot,” Carrie interrupts. “You _like_ them, like them.” 

Kent inhales to laugh at that ludicrous claim, but then her words actually register with him. “Shit,” he says, his eyes going wide. “Shit, shit, shit, shit,  _shit.”_

“Oop, there it is,” Carrie says dryly. 

Kent thunks his head against his living room wall. 

 

___ 

 

Kent considers and discards several plans, most of which involve some variation of buying a ton of Ben & Jerry’s American Dream and watching _Crazy, Stupid, Love_ while he bawls his eyes out, but there’s this one stupid plan that keeps on popping up again and again, no matter how hard he tries to ignore it: 

What if he actually asks them out? 

Look, they were already considering going polyamorous, weren’t they? He didn’t buy Jack’s bullshit deflection for a second, that whole conversation got way too personal for it to be just a fucking hypothetical. 

And, well, if they  _were_ considering it—then why not with him? 

There’s the distance thing, sure, and the being closeted, alright, that might be a bit dicey, but— 

Well, Jack thought he was hot, once upon a time, and Kent’s  _reasonably_ certain Bitty thinks he’s bang-able, too, and honestly they were already in a long-distance relationship during the season anyway, so what was one more? Kent could spend his summers in Providence, easy, and there was skype and texting and shit for the rest of the year, and honestly they already spend—well,  _spent,_ but Kent’s planning on fixing that—so much time talking anyway that why the fuck shouldn’t they upgrade to dating? 

“I could be their other boyfriend,” Kent tells Purrs and Kit. 

They  _mrrp_ at him agreeably; Kent takes it as a sign. 

 

___ 

 

Plan ‘We Should Definitely Bone’ gets put on unfortunate hiatus for most of May and all of June, thanks to the fact that both the Falcs and the Aces make the play-offs. 

Then the Falcs get knocked out in the third round, which fucking sucks, but Kent can’t really offer Jack proper condolences because he’s too busy forcing his own team to get their shit together. He calls anyway, lets it go to voicemail and leaves a long and rambling message talking about Kit somehow escaping and getting stuck in a tree again. 

The Aces make it all the way to the Conference finals, and then all the way to game six of the Cup Finals, and then, boom—Kent’s holding the Stanley Cup for the third fucking time. 

Best of all, when he looks into the stands, there’s Bitty, cheering at the top of his lungs, and there’s Jack, holding a camera to his fucking face like that can hide the fact that he’s probably tearing up, the dweeb. 

Kent grins, and lifts that trophy high. 

 

___ 

 

“So,” he says to a select circle of his teammates later that night—or maybe early that morning, Kent’s not entirely sure of the details just now—“just a heads up, but I’m thinking of asking Jack and Bitty out tomorrow. You know, take advantage of winning the Cup, get some of that juju going for me—the hockey gods are okay with shit like that, yeah? What do you guys think?” 

“Wait a minute,” Swoops says, “you’re gonna ask out Zimmermann and Bittle?” 

Kent scratches his nose. “Uh, yeah? What, do you think it’s a bad idea to ask now? Should I wait a little longer?” 

Swoops hesitates. “Well—” 

Shit. “I should wait longer, shouldn’t I?” Kent says, anxious. “I don’t want them to, like, feel pressured to go out with me just because I won the Stanley Cup—what?” he demands, glaring at Gopher, who’s sitting on the floor laughing his head off. 

“Ignore him,” Scrappy says. “Anyway, I think asking them out today is a good idea.” 

Hucky nods, too, giving him a thumbs up. “Mmhm. Best timing now.” 

“Oh, definitely,” Swoops says. “Shouldn’t keep them waiting.” 

“Yeah,” Pager says, “I mean, considering how long they’ve—ow! Scrappy! What was that for!” 

“He doesn’t know,” Scrappy says cryptically.

Pager does a double-take. “Wait,  _really?_ How can he  _not_ know? I thought he was joking!” 

“You thought who was joking?” Kent asks, suspicious. 

“Gopher,” everyone says at once. 

Gopher, still laughing, doesn’t refute them. 

Kent narrows his eyes. “Sounds fake, but okay,” he says. 

“Look,” Swoops says, shaking his head, “do you want our advice or not?” 

Kent, because he  _does_ want their advice, lets the subject drop. “Okay, then, you fuckers, make yourselves useful—should I wear the jeans jacket or not?” 

“No!” 

“Don’t you dare!” 

“Don’t fucking wear the jeans jacket, Parse!” 

“If you wear that thing, I’m setting it on fire while it’s still on you!” 

Kent sniffs disdainfully. “You guys have no style,” he complains. 

“And yet most of us are married,” Swoops counters, “so are you going to shut up and listen, or not?” 

Kent shuts up and listens. 

 

___ 

 

When Kent gets home, there’s a pie waiting for him on the counter, designed to look like an American flag. 

“Oh,” he says, dropping his bag on the floor. He walks closer to get a better look at it. 

“Kent!” a familiar voice calls out, delighted. “Welcome home!” 

When Kent turns around, Bitty is standing there in his living room, beaming at him, hair still a little mussed from all the partying they did the night before, and flour on his cheek from where he baked Kent a fucking congratulations pie— 

Cherry, because it’s his favorite. 

Kent blames left over euphoria for what he does next. 

He goes over and lays one on Bitty, just—he fucking  _goes_ for it, cupping Bitty’s face and pulling him in and taking advantage when Bitty gasps against him to slide his tongue into his mouth, taking the kiss from a little dirty to downright  _filthy._

“Calîsse,” somebody says, and when Kent breaks away, Jack’s in the doorway, staring at them, wide-eyed. 

“Oh, fuck,” Kent says, dropping his hands and stepping away, his eyes darting from Jack to Bitty in a nervous circle. “Wait, wait, I had a game plan, I promise—um, this wasn’t what it looks like, I swear I was gonna—look, uh, could we pretend the past minute never happened, and I just walked in the door and asked if you guys wanted to go grab coffee with me? Not as friends, though, I meant as, like—” 

“Kent Parson,” Bitty interrupts, “are you trying to ask us out on a _date?”_

Kent winces. “Yeah?” he says. “Is it working?”

Jack and Bitty exchange a glance before bursting into incredulous laughter. 

Disappointment and shame war in Kent’s belly. _Well, that answers that,_ he thinks bitterly. “Sorry,” he says, stumbling in the direction of the door, “lemme just—I’m just gonna go now, I didn’t mean to make things awkward—” 

But suddenly Jack’s there in front of him, smiling. “Kenny,” he says, and Kent’s opening his mouth to tell him not to fucking call him that, Jesus, he can’t take this right now, this isn’t _fair—_  

—but then Jack bends down and kisses him.

Kisses him _deep._  

“Um,” Kent says after, weak-kneed. He can feel his fucking toes curling, what the fuck—Jack’s gotten better at that, goddamn. “The hell is going on?” 

Jack huffs a laugh against his lips, but Kent’s not going anywhere this time, held in place by Jack’s stupidly big hands, one curled around the nape of his neck, the other cupping his ass possessively. Kent squirms, feeling himself getting hard from just that, fuck, this is fucking embarrassing, Jack looking down at him with knowing eyes like he knows _exactly_ what he’s doing to him— 

—and then all of a sudden Bitty’s there, too, laughing right in Kent’s ear and making him shiver. 

“Darlin’,” he says, all sweet affection, pressing up behind Kent, “we’ve been trying to ask you out for the past ten months. _That’s_ what’s been going on.” 

Kent blinks. “No way,” he says automatically. “You guys have _not.”_

“We have,” Bitty insists. 

“You’ve just been really oblivious, bud,” Jack tells him. 

Kent frowns up at him. “I don’t wanna hear that from you,” he retorts. 

“Then you should’ve said yes when I tried to ask you to be our boyfriend back in December,” Jack says. 

And with the inevitability of a tidal wave, all the pieces crash into place. “No,” Kent says, his eyes going wide, “not the fucking ‘have you thought about it?’ convo.” 

“Yes, Kenny,” Jack says patiently, bending down to nip at Kent’s neck, “I was trying to see if you’d thought about it with _us.”_

“That is not how you fucking ask a guy out, Zimms,” Kent argues, but the effect is ruined somewhat by the way he’s panting. 

“Then how about asking a guy out to dinner, but then it turns out that he invited his friends along, hmm?” Bitty asks, sliding his hands up Kent’s shirt in a rather, uh, _distracting_ fashion. Kent’s dick is definitely getting with the program, though, even if his brain is getting blown by a barrage of realizations. “Or getting to the romantic restaurant you picked out just for him, only to find him chatting up a complete stranger?”

“Or having him over for a movie date, only for him to leave mid-way?” Jack adds. 

“Wait, I was totally a third wheel that night!” Kent protests. “You even accidentally played footsie with—oh, fuck, that was on fucking purpose wasn’t it?”

“Mmhm,” Bitty says. 

“And then all the fake flirting…?” 

“Was real flirting,” Bitty confirms. 

“Then asking about threesomes—” 

Bitty groans. “Okay, _that_ was a mistake,” he admits. “I was  _supposed_ to ask if maybe you’d want to try something with us, but I got too drunk.” 

Jack snorts. “You about gave me a heart attack when you almost had a threesome with _someone else_ just to try it, Parse.” 

“In my defense, she was really hot,” Kent says faintly. He blinks again. “Oh, fuck,” he says, “oh, fuck, you totally told me you liked me, didn’t you?” 

“I did,” Jack says. 

“We  _both_ did,” Bitty says,  _“several_ times, I might add.” He chuckles again. “How oblivious can you be, baby?”

Kent shivers, both at the nickname and the blatant affection behind it. “Uh, really, really fucking oblivious, I guess? I mean, Carrie kinda had to tell me I liked you guys for me to figure it out.” 

“Well, thank God _somebody_ told you,” Bitty says, pragmatic. “I was not going to go another year suffering from unresolved sexual tension and unrequited love.” 

Kent’s eyes go wide. Love? Did Bitty just say— 

“Baby,” Bitty says, interrupting his thought process, “baby, can we please take this to the bedroom now?” 

“Yes,” Kent replies, nodding his head enthusiastically, “yes, please, absolutely.” 

…except then they get there and Kent immediately starts struggling to keep his eyes open. 

“Oh, no,” Bitty says, looking at him with concern. “I’m so sorry, honey, you must be exhausted. You’ve been up all night, haven’t you? Did you get any rest at all in Swoops’ house?” 

“You should sleep, Kenny,” Jack says decisively. 

Kent wants to protest, except the way he keeps yawning every other word sort of undercuts his arguments. 

Bitty and Jack shush him. “It’s fine, honey,” Bitty says. “We’ll be here when you wake up.” 

Kent takes those words to heart and falls into a dreamless sleep. 

 

___ 

 

Kent wakes up to find Jack and Bitty making out beside him in nothing but their underwear. 

“Holy fuck,” he says, “am I dreaming?” 

That, for some reason, gets Bitty blushing, and Jack lets out that loud, honking laugh of his. 

“Did I miss something?” Kent queries. 

“You shut it,” Bitty says, making a face at Jack, who ignores him and continues to laugh. Bitty slides a sheepish look in Kent’s direction and says, “Well, we got the whole idea for this—” he gestures at their entwined bodies “—after I, um, started dreaming about you.” 

Kent stares at him. “You mean—” 

“Sexually, yes,” Bitty admits, blushing even harder, but he doesn’t look away. 

“Holy fuck,” Kent repeats. “I think that’s the hottest thing I’ve ever heard in my life.” 

Jack stops laughing long enough to say, “Wait until he tells you what he dreamed about.” 

“Jack!” Bitty says, scandalized. 

Kent tilts his head to the side, curious. “What  _did_ you dream about?” he asks. 

“You mean what _didn’t_ I dream about,” Bitty grumbles, but relents when he catches sight of Kent’s smirk. “Oh, fine,” he says, flopping onto his back in the middle of the bed, resting comfortably between Kent and Jack; Kent congratulates himself for having the foresight to order a California king. “That first dream, we were in my kitchen together—” 

“Kinky,” Kent says, grinning. 

“—hush you—” Bitty admonishes “—and I was baking some cookies, and then you volunteered to taste test—” 

Kent’s brows wing upward. 

“—so I scooped up some dough and offered it to you,” Bitty finishes. 

“With your fingers?” Kent asks. 

Bitty nods, licking his lips. 

“Like this?” And Kent takes one of Bitty’s hands and slowly sucks two fingers into his mouth, flicking his tongue up to lick at the sensitive webbing. 

“Oh, God,” Bitty gasps, and the sounds he makes after that go straight to Kent’s dick. Kent closes his eyes and groans, sucking harder, hips moving restlessly against the mattress, and he whines when Bitty pulls his hand away. 

“Tell him what happened next, Bits,” Jack demands huskily, and Kent opens his eyes to find Jack staring at them both. 

 _Fuck,_ he thinks, going light-headed with lust. He always was a bit of an exhibitionist, and he remembers how Jack liked to watch. Kent wouldn’t mind putting on a show for him now, not if Bitty would let him. 

“What happened, Bits?” he asks, already riding on the edge of desperate, and feeling too needy to care. “What did I do next?” 

Bitty inhales shakily, just as affected. “You—you got on your knees, right there in the kitchen,” he says. 

“Fuck,” Kent groans, imagining it, “fuck, that’s hot. Did I suck your dick, babe?” he asks. “Was I fucking gagging for it? Did you choke me on it, or did you make me beg first, huh?” 

Bitty lets out a sharp gasp, and then he’s lunging for Kent, pressing their mouths together in a frenzy of heat and lust. Kent meets him stroke for stroke, canting his hips forward and rubbing shamelessly against Bitty’s thigh. A second later and Bitty’s dick is sliding against his, hot and hard through the thin layers of their briefs. 

“Fuck me,” Kent says, “fuck me, fuck me, fuck me—” 

“Thought you were gonna suck his dick first, Kenny,” Jack taunts, tugging at his hair in a way that makes Kent keen from how good it feels. “Don’t tell me you thought you wouldn’t have to earn it?” 

That’s it; Kent fucking  _sobs._

“Please,” he begs, clutching at Bitty’s hips, “please, Bits, please, let me suck you off, fuck my mouth with your cock, please, Bitty, please,  _please_ —” 

Mercifully, Bitty rolls onto his back, and then Jack’s shoving Kent down, exactly the right amount of rough, and then Kent’s tearing Bitty’s underwear off and getting his mouth around him, and, yes,  _yes,_ this is exactly what he wanted, this heavy weight in his mouth, Bitty’s length stretching his lips wide, Jack pushing him down so he chokes on him, his eyes watering, Bitty’s salt and musk on his tongue, yes, yes,  _yes_ —

“Oh, fuck, sweetheart,” Bitty’s sobbing, his hand clutching at Kent’s head as he grinds his hips up, shameless, taking what he wants from Kent, taking everything Kent’s got to give him, “oh, fuck, yes—oh, God, your  _mouth_ —you’re so good, baby, so good—you’re even better than I dreamed, I—I—” 

Kent almost comes from that alone. 

Then Jack pulls him off, holding him up by his shoulders, guiding him with a hand held tight in his hair. 

Kent whines, desperate, opening his eyes to see Bitty sprawled beneath him, staring avidly at his face, his body. 

“Bitty,” Jack says, panting, “Bits, do you wanna finish on his face, or in his ass?” 

Hot, sweet embarrassment floods over Kent in a rush, and his dick twitches between his legs, and he’s helpless to stop it, unable to hide a thing, and he _sees_ Bitty see his reaction, a feedback loop that sets his nerves on fire. Bitty’s eyes are reverent as he reaches out a hand and strokes him from his neck down to his cock, grasping it firmly. 

“Well, baby?” he asks. “What do you want? You sucked my cock so well I think you deserve to choose.” 

Kent shakes his head frantically. “I—I—” 

“Do you want Jack to choose?” Bitty asks. 

Kent nods, relieved. 

“Well, Jack?” 

Jack’s voice is a rumble behind Kent. “Think I wanna see him ride you,” he answers Bitty. 

Kent moans his assent, and Bitty scrambles for the supplies in the bedside drawer. 

They open him up together, fingers slicked up with lube as Kent’s eyes roll back into his head, his rim stretched snug around their knuckles. Kent’s a sobbing mess by the time Jack lowers him down onto Bitty’s condom-covered cock, taking him inch by glorious inch, knees on either side of Bitty’s hips as he sinks down until he’s nearly flush against Bitty’s abs.

“Please,” Kent begs, “please.” 

Bitty doesn’t disappoint, fucking into Kent with a single-minded intensity that sets Kent quaking, and he gets lost in the rhythm, in the feel of being taken again and again and again, the head of Bitty’s cock rubbing up against his prostate and making him scream. 

And then Jack’s hands fucking sneak around to Kent’s front, teasing Kent’s nipples. 

“Fuck,” he chokes out, hips faltering, his whole body lighting up as Jack’s fingers pinch and tug and _twist_. “You goddamn bastard, don’t you dare—oh, God, oh, fuck, please, _please_ —” 

“Lean up and suck them, Bitty,” Jack advises, and Kent swears up a storm, tossing his head back and keening as Bitty’s tongue joins Jack’s fingers, Jack’s mouth latching onto his neck and sucking hard, Bitty’s cock still grinding up into his ass, and that’s it, that’s all, Kent can’t hold back any longer.

He comes with a full-body shudder and a sobbing shout. 

Bitty fucks him through it, heedless of the aftershocks rocking his body, Jack thumbing at the leaking slit of Kent’s dick, the both of them wringing every last drop of pleasure out of him until they, too, succumb. 

 

___ 

 

After they clean up, Kent stares at the ceiling and says, “I can’t believe we could’ve been doing this for ten months.” 

Bitty and Jack laugh on either side of him. 

“Well, look at the bright side, hon,” Bitty points out. “We’re going to be doing this for the rest of our lives.” 

Kent grins; he can live with that. 

 

___

**Author's Note:**

> IT'S DONE!! \0/
> 
> ...y'all, it's been a tough ~~year~~ week. If you could send any positive thoughts my way, that would be much appreciated. ^^;
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this fic ~~despite its lateness orz~~ , and please feel free to leave comments, kudos, etc.! Even more importantly, please also remember to like or reblog the [original art](https://korechthonia.tumblr.com/post/185656788704/seventh-times-the-charm-find-the-fic-on-ao3) if you liked this story. And check out the other great works from [OMGCP Reversebang 2019](https://omgcpreversebang.tumblr.com/)! I promise you won't be disappointed. ^^
> 
> Again, thank you for reading, and I hope you have a wonderful day. <3


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